


Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname -- Book One

by kuriadalmatia



Series: Keep the Suit, Lose the Nickname [1]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2012-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-09 04:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Spencer Reid was the unit chief of the BAU and Aaron Hotchner joined the team after the Boston bombings that lead to Gideon's leave of absence? As Hotchner adjusts to his new role in the elite profiling unit, he faces challenges not only from UnSubs but from Gideon, who doesn't approve of the new Hot Shot of the unit. Oh, and the little matter of Hotch having a crush on Reid …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting in Seattle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ and FFNet in 2011. 
> 
> Unbeated. Inspired by a prompt from Ansera's CMIV Kink Meme: "AU: A younger and eager Hotch has a thing for his unit Chief Spencer Reid. bottom!Reid and somewhat inexperienced (with men) Hotch!"
> 
> This so totally got out of hand or out of mind. Or something, because it's another one of those 'evolution of relationships' things. And it became a freaking monster.
> 
> Feedback always welcome.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> REGARDING THE TIMELINE  
> In this AU, Hotch is about the same age as Morgan. While he worked in the prosecutor's office, it was a very short stint before he went on to the FBI. He didn't run the Seattle field office like he did in canon nor did he run security for Ambassador Prentiss.
> 
> Reid is in his early- to mid-forties, and as spent the last fifteen or so years in the BAU. Gideon did bring him in to the BAU but (as it stands right now), Reid wasn't directly recruited out of college.

On his second day of high school, Aaron Hotchner was bestowed the nickname "Hot Shot." It was meant to be derogatory, but Hotchner embraced it and made it his own so much that it carried over to his college years. It was only natural that it stuck with him during law school, his stint as a prosecutor, his FBI Academy training and subsequent posting to the FBI's Seattle field office.

Hotchner. Hot Shot. It wasn't that far of a stretch. He knew it was on the obnoxious side (not to mention arrogant), but his abilities as a student, lawyer and now FBI field agent backed up the nickname. He refused to be embarrassed about it. Well ... until two members of the BAU showed up for a consult.

Tony Schadek, the head of the field office, did the introductions; Schadek jerked a thumb in Hotchner's direction and said "just call this guy Hot Shot" like he always did. BAU Unit Chief SSA Doctor Spencer Reid met Hotchner's eyes but didn't extend a hand. The older agent nodded slightly, but looked nonplussed, which was an unusual reaction. Usually, veteran agents (especially those in position of command) made some comment about his nickname followed some kind of challenge for Hotchner to back it up.

It was Reid's partner, Greenaway, who smirked and said, "Hot Shot, huh?" as she shook his hand.

It was the first time in a very long time that Hotchner was embarrassed about the moniker. He wanted to dismiss the feeling, but found that he couldn't. Not with the way Reid quietly observed the exchange. Not with the way that Reid's left eyebrow hitched just a little. Not with the way the man rocked slightly back on his heels.

Not with how badly Hotchner wanted to impress the BAU.

The profiling bug had bit him while still in law school, specifically during his internship at the local prosecutor's office. SSA David Rossi had been an expert witness for them and had spent a few days in the office going over the details of the profile which was vital to the case. Hotchner was charged with taking notes; listening to Rossi's explanation and rationale was enthralling and it was the first time Hotchner questioned his own career path. It was why he only spent a few years at the prosecutor's office before applying to the FBI.

Currently he was finishing up the master's in psychology that the BAU required as he paid his dues in the Seattle field office.

And when Hotchner learned that the BAU had been called in for a consult, he found out who was being sent and quickly read up on them. He knew about Reid's mind-blowing accomplishments both academically and as an agent. He was familiar with Greenaway's meteoric rise from Miami sex crimes to the coveted posting in the BAU. Hotchner went so far as to read a few of Reid's published articles in peer-reviewed journals, although the mathematic side of it made Hotchner's head spin.

But meeting Reid in person? It was kind of difficult to take him seriously as a unit chief. The man dressed like a stereotypical, geeky retro professor, complete with mismatched socks and Chuck Taylors. Reid's hair was long, tucked behind his ears with the occasional wayward lock falling into his eyes whenever he leaned over. He certainly didn't fit with the image the head of an elite unit. No. Reid looked more like a former fashion model with his high cheekbones and slender build, a former model that just couldn't dress well.

Then there was Reid's approach to the consult, allowing Greenaway run point as he sat back and poured over maps, reports, and photos. In Hotchner's opinion, a unit chief should lead, not follow. A unit chief should be the focus, not hanging out in the periphery.

No wonder most of the field office dismissed Reid as an authority, describing him as "pussy-whipped" because Greenaway so damn dominating. Even when they gave the profile, Greenaway led the briefing, only pausing when Reid piped in with more thorough explanations of piquerism and hebefiles, complete with references to other serial killers.

Once the Seattle agents and the local PD had the profile, Hotchner's team was put on stand-by thanks to a request by Reid, citing the UnSub's recent escalation. Unfortunately, this didn't leave much time for Hotchner to venture over to where Reid and Greenaway were holed up. It didn't give him the opportunity to properly introduce himself, to express his interest in profiling, and to do a little self-promotion.

Hotchner knew the politics of the Bureau. He knew how to get noticed. It was how he made it to SWAT leader in such a short time. He was, after all, called Hot Shot for a reason.

Maybe that was why Reid had SWAT put on alert; Reid had guessed Hotchner's intentions and just didn't want to deal with it. It was an understandable feeling. Hotchner found himself occasionally in that position in his own leadership role.

But then their UnSub panicked because the locals did not heed the BAU's warning about psychological triggers. Since Hotchner's team was already on stand-by, they were ready to go the moment the call came in.

It was how Hotchner found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with Greenaway, watching as Reid walked into the day care center without a weapon or Kevlar and listening to the unit chief begin a dialogue with the highly unstable UnSub.

"Please tell me he's carrying a backup," Hotchner muttered as he thought of his own Glock strapped to his ankle. They knew the UnSub had at least semi-automatic rifle and a handgun despite the preference for a Bowie knife for committing the murders.

"It's not all about guns, Hot Shot," Greenaway snorted as she clipped Reid's holster to her belt. "The most effective weapon we have is a profile." At his dubious look—yes, he understood the value of a profile, but there were sometimes (such as this) that one needed a goddamned firearm—she added, "Just listen and learn."

So Hotchner did.

He listened to Reid's voice, the easy cadence and the empathy that warmed his words. The control. The masterful phrasing which was non-threatening yet authoritative.

"If you harm the children," Reid explained with the casualness of a close friend talking to another, "then that will be all that you're known for. They'll call you the Genesee Daycare Killer. They'll focus on the guns you have. But that's not who you are. That's not what you want. You want people to understand just who you are. You want recognition. You want the prestige, but with all your accomplishments … do you really want it to be for something as mundane as _this_?"

The elements from the profile clicked in and Hotchner realized just how much Reid had incorporated it into his dialogue with UnSub.

It was stunning.

Six minutes later, all ten of the children and their caretakers came running out of the building.

Just as Hotchner was about to give the order for his team to take up new positions, Reid made some esoteric comment that caused Greenaway to grab Hotchner's forearm. "Tell your men to hold position," she stated and met his gaze, "and tell them to hold their fire."

Hotchner almost ignored her because what she was asking was a deviation from protocol. He had an unarmed federal agent in a volatile situation. His team didn't have a line-of-sight into the day care, one that they needed in case the UnSub decided to, well, blow Reid's brains out. However, there was something in Greenaway's tone combined with what he heard Reid telling the UnSub that made him decide to go with Reid's request.

Hotchner relayed it to his own team, ignoring the "you gotta be kidding me" chorusing through his earpiece. He amped up his vocal authority as he snapped, "Hold your position!" The murmuring stopped, but Hotchner knew they all thought he was crazy.

What happened next thoroughly blew Hotchner's mind. Their UnSub confessed to the seven murders in a manner even the sloppiest of prosecutors couldn't screw up. Names. Dates. Details that hadn't been released to the press. All done without coercion. All done with the UnSub knowing he was talking to a FBI agent.

Once the UnSub was finished, Reid mentioned that the press was waiting outside and asked if it would be okay for them to leave the daycare, tacking on: "They're eager to see you." A minute later, Reid emerged from the daycare center with the UnSub in cuffs.

"What did I tell you?" Greenaway smirked and then sauntered over to where Reid stood.

As Hotchner finished securing the scene with his team and recovering the UnSub's weapons, his brain caught up with what had transpired. He realized the only reason their UnSub—Ty Brantley—had even agreed to talk to the FBI was because he had completely misjudged Reid. Brantley had seen what Reid had wanted him to see: a non-threatening, "anything-but-an-Alpha" male.

When Hotchner approached the chief, who was now standing alone near the SUV he'd arrived to the scene in, he could see the quiet authority and command that the man exuded. Reid's confidence was clear in the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. He wasn't a traditional-looking FBI agent, and he used every bit of it to his advantage.

 _His greatest weapon is the profile_ , Hotchner recalled Greenaway's words.

It only made his desire to join the BAU even greater.

Which was why he probably sounded like a complete fanboy as he said, "The way you used the profile to get Brantley to confess was brilliant."

Reid nodded a little, almost absently. "It's a negotiating tactic."

"A negotiating tactic?" Hotchner couldn't help but laugh. "You get the guy to confess to the crimes without coercion. A confession that will almost be impossible to get thrown out of court." He shook his head. "You're a prosecutor's wet dream."

That earned a warm smile and a twinkle in Reid's eyes. "Didn't you used to be a prosecutor?"

The fact that Reid knew this about him made Hotchner grin and say, "Yes, I was," before he realized just what he'd implied about himself. He could feel the blush burning his cheeks.

Reid favored him with an amused grin before opening the SUV's door. "See you at the station."

"Yes, sir," Hotchner automatically replied. _Way to impress the unit chief, Hot Shot_ , he scolded himself. _He thinks you're an idiot_.

#####


	2. Science Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-case dinners with his team was something that Hotchner initiated. It was only polite to extend the invitation to Reid and Greenaway.

Post-case dinners with his team was something that Hotchner initiated when he was promoted to SWAT leader. It was only polite to extend the invitation to Reid and Greenaway, who were taking the red eye back to Quantico. It was how Hotchner, his SWAT team, a few agents from the field office, and the two profilers ended up at a sports bar near Sea-Tac.

Greenaway seemed to fit right in, the earlier hostility from the other agents sluiced away by a few shared pitchers of beer and a successful case. It didn't hurt that Greenaway passionately hated the Yankees—who just happened to be playing against the Mariners—which earned the adoration of the two native Bostonians on Hotchner's team.

Reid, however, kept a polite distance from the rowdy group. At first, Hotchner was leery of joining the unit chief, especially after his 'wet dream' comment. Yet manners drilled into him as a young man, especially those about being a good host, prompted him to pick up his iced tea, walk over to Reid's table, and ask if he could join him.

It had nothing to do with the desire to have some one-on-one face time with the man in charge of the unit he wanted to work for.

Okay. It had _something_ to do with it.

The unit chief nodded and Hotchner took a seat, making sure he could keep an eye on his team. When he turned to initiate a conversation with Reid, he noticed how the other agent was assessing him again, just like he had when Schadek introduced Hotchner as Hot Shot. It was almost annoying.

It was strangely flattering.

"Rossi used to call it 'counting chicks,'" Reid commended as he jutted his chin towards Hotchner's group. "Although, I never quite understood the context of the phrase. Is it a derivative of, 'Don't count your chickens before they're hatched'?" He tapped his finger against his chin. "Did you know that the origins of that phrase can be traced back to the Aesop Fable 'The Milkmaid and Her Pail' circa 570 BC? Although some erroneously attribute it to Thomas Howell, who published the phrase in _New Sonnets and Pretty Pamphlets_ in 1570. His was actually the first time the phrase appears in print."

Baffled, Hotchner asked, "Ah, sir?"

"Before you sat down, you made sure you knew where the members of your team were," Reid clarified. "Counting chicks."

Again, there was a flush of embarrassment that began in his belly; it was the first time anyone had ever called Hotchner on that particular behavior. Fighting his own discomfort, he focused on Reid's explanation about the phrase's origins. "Sir, I don't think 'counting chicks' has anything to do with an Aesop fable."

The unit chief frowned slightly, as if contemplating what he had said, and then laughed lightly. "I suppose you're right." He picked up his brandy (an odd choice for a sports bar, definitely) and took a slow sip. "Sweetened or unsweetened?"

Hotchner stared. "Sir?"

"Your tea. Sweet tea or unsweetened?" Reid asked as he set his own glass down. "Your accent places you somewhere in southern Virginia, maybe the Carolinas, although you've worked diligently to suppress it." He pointed to Hotchner's tea. "When traveling in the South, one must specifically request unsweetened iced tea since most restaurants typically serve sweet tea by default. So, sweetened or unsweetened tea?" He tilted his head a little. "Or is that too personal of a question to ask?"

_It's too bizarre of a question to ask_ , Hotchner thought as he struggled to keep the 'are you batshit crazy or what?' look off his face. The comment about his accent _did_ make him uncomfortable. It was true; Hotchner worked hard to get rid of that Southern twang and people usually didn't know he was originally from Virginia unless he told them. The fact that Reid picked upon it was unnerving.

_He's the unit chief of the BAU_ , Hotchner reminded himself. _Of course he's that good. You witnessed it earlier today, for Christ's sake_. A chill ran up his spine. _You just weren't expecting him to do it to you._

Hotchner cleared his throat, a pathetic cover for his internalizing, before he answered, "Unsweetened with two packets of Splenda if it's been brewed. I don't drink the fountain version."

Reid's grin was warm. "I prefer Sugar in the Raw if I can get it," he admitted as if he were sharing some great secret. "Although from a solubility standpoint, Splenda may be a better choice. Hmmm … Perhaps we should do an experiment!" He picked up the plastic container that held the packets of sweetener. "Here we are … Splenda, Sweet'n'Low, Equal and refined cane sugar." He pulled out two of each kind and then flagged down the waitress. "May we have four glasses of unsweetened iced tea and four teaspoons, please?"

The waitress nodded and disappeared. Hotchner sat there, stunned. He hoped to talk shop. To perhaps even discuss his Master's thesis a little depending on the flow of the conversation. To glean some insight on what would give him an edge to join the BAU. Not to … not to do a science experiment right there at their table with the BAU unit chief.

"Sir …"Hotchner began, searching for a polite way to nix the whole 'mixing sweeteners into tea' thing.

Reid cocked his head quizzically and his smile lost a little of its warmth. For a few moments, there was silence between them as Hotchner struggled to come up with something to say that wouldn't further insult the other agent. Then Reid leaned forward slightly. "Some people go out for drinks. Others go to the gym. For me? It's paperwork, film canister rockets, or something simple, like determining the solubility of sugar and its substitutes in iced tea." He shrugged. "I can do paperwork on the plane home and I don't have any film canisters with me. Hence, the iced tea."

Hotchner glanced down at his drink as he murmured, "It's how you relax." He felt like a complete idiot now because he should have figured that out. Reid faced down a heavily armed UnSub holding women and children hostage and talked his way to a solution in which no one was harmed and there were no shots fired.

"And part of your post-case ritual is to bring your team to a bar, buy their first round, and make sure that they know they're appreciated," Reid said. There was a pause. "That, and to see how the case affected them."

Hotchner straightened, almost indignant at the comment. "You make me sound Machiavellian."

"It was an observation, Agent Hotchner," Reid replied, "not a judgment."

The waitress arrived with the four glasses of tea and the four spoons.

Reid was grinning again, his tone light and enthusiastic. "Are you sure you don't want to test a few theories? How quickly aspartame dissolves in liquid versus saccharine…" He paused as his cell phone rang. He plucked it from his belt and answered. He listened for a few moments before saying, "Hold on." He gave an apologetic smile as he stood up. Hotchner rose as well (some Southern habits were nearly impossible to break). Reid gestured towards the glasses, "Some other time?"

"Of course, sir," Hotchner replied automatically.

Reid gave him an appreciative smile and then returned to his phone call, walking to the front the bar and exiting so he could have some privacy.

Hotchner sat down at the table, eyeing the glasses of iced tea. He still wasn't sure quite what happened. It wasn't the conversation he hoped to have. It wasn't _anything_ he'd ever envisioned. He wondered if Reid thought him to be a complete idiot or a suck up, because honestly, why else would he agree to do an experiment at a later date?

A filled shot glass was plunked down next to his left hand as Greenaway slid into the seat her boss had just vacated. "You look like you could use that."

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Hotchner said.

"Not a Jaegermeister guy then?"

"No."

Greenaway shrugged, picked up the shot, and downed it. She made a face and put the glass down. "Guh. Give me a good tequila any day." She then tapped the side of one of the iced teas. "Either you're really thirsty or Reid was about to do Science Friday."

"The latter," Hotchner told her dryly. She laughed as she grabbed one of the teas. She took a sip, nodded and took a deeper one. When she set the glass down, he said, "You acknowledge that it's Science Friday iced tea, yet you still take a drink."

"Tell me why I did," she challenged.

"You trust him."

"Try again, Hot Shot, or does that nickname only apply to what you're packing in your pants?"

Taken back, Hotchner straightened. _She's testing me_ , he thought. He looked down at the table. "The spoons are in a pile and none of them are wet. The packets of sweetener are unopened. The straws are still in their wrappers." He met her gaze. "And you've been sitting on the stool next to McAuliffe, watching our exchange from the moment I sat down."

"Not bad for a SWAT guy."

"I'm not just a SWAT guy, Greenaway."

"As if you didn't make that point quite clear back in the office," she commented and then took another swig of the tea. "I'm surprised you didn't pony out your thesis for him to grade." He opened his mouth to protest, but then wondered how the hell she knew he was working on his Masters. That topic didn't come up in any of their conversations and he certainly didn't broadcast his academic status with the rest of the field office. She held up her hand. "You honestly think you're the only field agent who wants to get into the BAU?" She snorted. "At least you make it interesting."

"Interesting," he repeated. He wanted to be angry that she called him out like that, but forced himself to hold his temper.

"You didn't come over here to talk to Reid just to give him your resume," Greenaway told him, her tone softening just a bit. "You made sure that I had a drink and that your men would treat me nicely. Then, your Southern manners kicked in when you saw Reid sitting by himself. A good host makes sure all his guests are having a good time. And … instead of promoting yourself, you listened to him. Not many people do that."

"Really."

"Really." She fiddled with her glass. "Now, before you say, 'I want that spot on the BAU,' I'll tell you this. There aren't any openings right now, but you know from your own research into the department how quickly that can change. So, my advice to you? Keep the suit. Lose the nickname."

"Shouldn't you have a deck of cards and a crystal ball?"

"It's not mind-reading, Hot Shot," she retorted, glancing over to where Reid was entering the bar again. She stood up and, like before, Hotchner did the same.

"Spokane," Reid told her without preamble as he approached them. "Family annihilator. Third attack in four weeks."

Greenaway shook her head. "And they're just calling us in _now_?"

Reid gave a dismissive shrug. "The rest of the team is leaving Quantico within the hour. We're on Alaskan at 11 PM."

"I can take you to the airport," Hotchner offered.

"Thanks, but no. I've already called a taxi. We just need to get our bags."

"I'll walk you out, then," because their stuff was in his car. Hotchner dug out his keys and motioned towards the door. He was hoping that Reid would begin discussing the case with Greenaway once they were back outside, out of earshot of the general public. Instead, Reid launched into a discourse on why Spokane's airport code was GEG—originally it was named Geiger Field after Major Harold C. Geiger—and Hotchner wondered if Reid was like that all the time, or if the man was simply making noise.

Once they retrieved their bags, Reid held out his hand to Hotchner. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"You're welcome," he said. They shook, Hotchner surprised at the firm grip and strength that Reid conveyed. Greenaway's handshake was the same bone-crushing one when they first met.

They walked over to where the taxi was waiting. The disappointment that Hotchner felt because he wouldn't be able to spend more time with the BAU agents was quickly tempered with, _Do you seriously want to listen to more useless facts on the drive to the airport?_

Greenaway got into the taxi first, and as Reid began to climb in, he stopped and snapped his fingers. He favored Hotchner with an apologetic smile. "Could you send me a copy of your tactical analysis report from today?"

"Yes, sir," Hotchner replied, a flush of cockiness and relief hitting him. He knew how good his reports were. Having the BAU unit chief ask for it? Well, that _had_ to be step in the right direction. "Safe travels, sir."

Reid simply grinned and got into the car.

Hotchner watched as they drove away, willing himself not to do something incredibly stupid, like wave goodbye. It didn't mean he didn't want to. When he returned to his table inside, he picked up the packets Reid had set aside for his experiment. On impulse, he shoved them in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

When he formally interviewed for the BAU—and, by God, he _was_ going to score an interview—he'll bring them with him. Surely, Reid would get a kick out of it.

####


	3. The Non-Traditional Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took seven months but Hotchner finally got the call from Quantico for an interview. He should have known it wasn't going to be a traditional one.

It took seven months—six months, twenty-three days longer than Hotchner wanted—but he finally, _finally_ got the call from Quantico. While it wasn't the exact one he was hoping for (that would be the 'welcome to the BAU' one), it was still an interview for one of the toughest departments to break into.

He wondered if Greenaway dispensed advice to every agent who showed interest in the BAU. He'd like to think not; she seemed pretty protective of her unit. A little haughty about their expertise if Hotchner were to go back and review the case they worked together again.

Still, he took her words to heart, although dropping his nickname proved impossible in the Seattle office. If he was transferred the BAU ( _when,_ he corrected himself, _**when** I'm transferred to the BAU_ ), he would make sure that Hot Shot became a thing of the past. He had another nickname, one that the DA gave him when he did his internship there, but it never quite stuck like Hot Shot had.

Then again, Hotchner hadn't really tried all that hard _to_ make it stick.

Hotchner knew the only reason why there was an opening in the unit was because of the bombing in Boston two months ago in which six agents lost their lives. Only one of the six had been with the BAU, SSA Don Hazelton.

Hotchner managed to find out that Gideon (who despite his long tenure in the BSU/BAU had never been named unit chief) was still on administrative leave following the bombing. From the reports, it sounded like Derek Morgan and Jennifer Jareau were the only other BAU agents besides Hazelton in Boston at the time. For whatever reason, it seemed that Greenaway wasn't. And if Reid had been there, he would have certainly done the press conference even if Jareau was their media liaison.

Then again, maybe not.

Reid wasn't the typical unit chief. Hotchner's time with him in Seattle was proof of that.

Regardless, Hotchner knew he had to downplay his eagerness. He had to focus on his unique skill set and the value it would add to the already impressive team. Greenaway and Morgan specialized in sex crimes and obsessional behavior respectively. Jareau handled the media. While Reid seemed to be an expert in almost everything, _none_ of the man's various degrees were in law. While Morgan did have a JD, he never practiced as an attorney.

Hotchner adjusted his grip on his briefcase and the strap of his overnighter. The five hour flight in the middle seat of a 757 had been tedious, but he effortlessly pushed that from his mind.

 _Focus,_ he told himself. _Focus._

As he paused before the doors to the BAU (refraining, of course, from imaging himself opening them every day), he heard voices coming down the hall. Hotchner glanced over his shoulder to see Reid walking briskly down the hallway, flanked by the impeccably dressed Jareau (he recognized her from press conferences) and by another blonde haired woman. The other woman wore a floral print dress, pale green cardigan, and chunky high-heeled shoes. What stunned Hotchner the most were the pink and blue streaks in her hair and the necklace made up of smiley faces.

Reid's own couture had changed as well: dark slacks, dress vest with a pocket watch, solid shirt and subdued tie. His hair was shorter, more of a classic yet stylish man's cut. _He's still mourning the loss of Hazelton_ , Hotchner immediate assessed, _and his ability to command was called into question_. He took a few steps back and to the side, allowing the group a clear path to the door. He had to. All three were focused on the papers in Reid's hands and not paying attention to their surroundings.

Or so Hotchner thought.

The group stopped as Jareau pushed open the door. Reid glanced up and addressed Hotchner, "Oh good. You're here." He jutted his chin towards Hotchner's bag. "Is that your overnight bag?"

Caught off guard, Hotchner sputtered, "Y-yes."

"Good," Reid said. "C'mon." Then, he and Jareau continued into the BAU.

Only the colorfully dressed woman remained behind. "I am their resident tech goddess extraordinaire. You may call me Garcia, handsome." She extended her hand.

Hotchner grasped it, surprised that she didn't crush his with the typical female FBI handshake. "Aaron Hotchner."

"Oh, I know all about you!" she cheerfully said as she released his hand and waggled a finger at him. "Now, you heard the boss man! Get cracking, my finely tailored agent. We have a case!" When he didn't respond right away, she made a clucking sound. "Oh, my poor, poor G-Man. You got stuck in the middle seat on the flight over, didn't you?"

"Ah. Yes."

She tugged on the sleeve of his suit coat. "Nothing a big cup of Doctor Reid's Special Brew can't cure. I'll make sure you get one."

"Ah, Garcia …" he began.

"Honey, you better get your Armani-clad butt into the conference room now," she admonished him as she walked to the door. She pushed it open. "Let's go."

Dumbfounded, he dutifully followed Garcia into the BAU, down the ramp and up the stairs into the large conference room. Jareau was standing in front of a large plasma screen with the pictures of three young boys displayed. Greenaway pushed out the chair next to her, an invitation to sit down.

Reid looked up from the file that he was reading. He then gestured with the file to each person in the room. "JJ, Morgan," who nodded at him, "Garcia," who waved enthusiastically. "You remember Elle." She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a small smile. Reid paused. "Team? Aaron Hotchner."

Hotchner set his briefcase and bag down and was about to begin the customary handshakes, but Reid didn't give him a chance. He handed him a file folder and launched into the briefing. "Yesterday morning," Reid began as he sat down, "a hiker discovered the body of eight year old Mark Wellman along one of the trails in Papago Park in Scottsdale, Arizona. He was reported missing a week ago. Three hours ago, Zachary Baumstein and Brian Feinberg, both age eight, went missing from the Jewish Day School."

Hotchner took a seat, swallowing hard as he realized just what was happening. He knew that the BAU was renowned for its pressure-cooker atmosphere, that some of the best and brightest agents burned out faster here than any other department except maybe Counter-Terrorism. The question about his overnight bag couldn't possibly mean that Reid was expecting him to join them ... Did it? Nerves kicked in but he forced them away as he opened the file.

 _You wanted this_ , Hotchner reminded himself and noted that none of the other team members batted an eye when Reid skipped over the formalities. _Maybe they do this with all their candidates_. It was quickly followed by, _You're getting ahead of yourself._

Hotchner listened as he scanned the file: a bare bones autopsy report, photographs of the dead boy, school photos of the missing two, and three police reports. The first police report detailed the Wellman abduction, the second the recovery of Wellman's body, and the third, Baumstein and Feinberg's abductions. However, it was the lack of details in all three—and why were Baumstein and Feinberg combined?—that stood out.

Strange.

Usually when a child was involved, the locals went overboard and included everything from how many ounces of OJ the children had for breakfast to how tall the grass was.

None of the reports had that.

He listened as Jareau gave additional information about the case. The time of day all three boys were abducted. The lack of witnesses. The searches that were being conducted. The separate press conferences the parents held. The ages and professions of the parents. The fact that the Baumstein and Feinberg families operated in different social circles.

Hotchner looked at the autopsy photos of Wellman, who had died from blunt force trauma to the back of the head. That was when he saw the faded bruises on the boy's legs. Hotchner skimmed over the report again. There were no other cuts or abrasions, no defensive wounds or signs that he was physically restrained. The child was not sexually assaulted. The body had been found wrapped carefully in blanket, the hands posed as if in prayer and a rosary wound around the boy's hands. He frowned.

"What do you see?" Reid prompted.

Hotchner jerked his gaze up, meeting the patient yet curious stare of the unit chief. He could feel the attention of the others focused on him. His mouth went dry. Hotchner swallowed down his hesitation— _If you really want this, this is what it's all about_ —and stated, "The bruising on Wellman's upper thighs and the backs of his legs look older than a week, like they've healed. There are no obvious signs of him being restrained; if he was, the ligatures didn't leave a mark. There are no other marks on the body."

"So Mom or Dad could have been taking some frustrations out on their kid," Morgan commented, not looking up from the file. "Our UnSub may have seen that."

"It could explain the remorse shown in the burial," Greenaway added.

"Garcia, check if there is any history of reported abuse with Wellman and our two missings," Reid directed.

"On it, my liege," Garcia said as she scribbled in her notebook with a pen that had a Troll perched on the end.

"What else?" Reid prompted.

Hotchner continue to scan the documents, because something else was nagging him. When there was no immediate response from the rest of the group, he glanced up. Greenaway, Jareau and Morgan were staring at him, obviously waiting for him to answer Reid's question.

He suppressed the urge to clear his throat. "Wellman was last seen outside his home, which makes it a high-risk abduction. Baumstein and Feinberg were last seen at their private school, which is also high-risk. So far, there are no witnesses who saw the boys being taken, which could mean their abductor is comfortable with his surroundings and able to blend in." He paused. "Wellman was buried posed in prayer and with a rosary, the latter traditionally identified with Catholicism. However, Baumstein and Feinberg are Jewish."

"And Wellman wasn't?" Reid asked. The dead child's or his parents' religious affiliation wasn't listed on any of the reports.

"He wasn't circumcised," Hotchner answered bluntly, and then briefly wondered if the others thought it strange that he focused on that detail. When no one responded to his comment, he continued, "Baumstein and Feinberg also share similar physical characteristics: brown eyes, dark brown hair, wide noses, and slight builds. Wellman had blonde hair, green eyes, and was heavier-set. Most pedophiles are preferential."

"So you're saying the abductions aren't related."

"I did not say that, sir," he replied as he met Reid's intense gaze. "I'm answering your question."

That earned the barest nod from the unit chief before he addressed the rest of the group. "We'll finish the briefing on the jet. Wheels up in thirty."

The others acknowledged him and quickly filed out. Hotchner remained, watching as Reid studied the plasma screen with a slight frown.

Hotchner waited, unsure of what was going to happen next. Had that been a test? More than likely, especially since Morgan or Greenaway didn't really add much to the conversation. When the unit chief didn't say anything for a few moments, Hotchner prompted, "Sir?"

That seemed to jostle Reid out of thought. "There should be a few spare travel mugs in the kitchenette. Get some coffee here because what we have on the jet is, well, questionable depending on who restocks," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. " _Never_ let Morgan buy you coffee." He stood and grabbed the folder. "Make your phone calls. We'll have a car downstairs in ten."

"I'm going with you, then." Hotchner knew it was a stupid statement, but there was no way in hell he was going to assume that he'd been invited along.

Reid looked at him. "Do you have any history with the Scottsdale PD that I should be aware of?"

"No, sir."

"Do you have any personal connection to the victims or their families?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Is there any conflict of interest that may be a factor in the case?"

"None that I'm aware of, sir."

"Do you believe Schadek will have an issue with you going to Scottsdale?" Reid narrowed his eyes. "He _does_ know why you're out here, doesn't he?"

He lifted his chin. "I spoke to him about this interview. As far as if he'll have an issue with me not returning when I was scheduled to, you'll have to ask him, sir."

"Then I guess you need to add that call to your list." Reid shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his feet. He tilted his head sideways. His tone was tinged with amusement. "Unless you want me to ask for permission on your behalf."

Fighting the blush that threatened to stain his cheeks, Hotchner replied, "No, sir. I'll, ah, do that, sir."

"Excellent. Wheels up in …" he checked his watch. "Twenty-five." He headed towards the door but paused just as he was about to leave. "What are they calling you nowadays?"

 _That_ made Hotchner blush. He was sure he met the unit chief's gaze as he replied, "Hotch."

Reid's grin was wide and warm as he repeated, "Hotch."

"Yes, sir."

"See you downstairs in ten, Hotch." Reid waggled his eyebrows and breezed out of the room.

#####

Unlike the discussion in the conference room, the briefing on the jet was more thorough. Reid, Morgan and Greenaway bounced ideas off each other while Jareau spent most of the time on her phone at the back of the jet. No one acted like having an interviewee as part of the case was something out of the ordinary, but it didn't lull Hotchner into a sense of complacency.

He knew he was being judged. It was ingenious—seeing how the potential team member operated under this kind of pressure, on a child abduction case no less—but also wholly unnerving.

What if he screwed up?

What if he missed something?

 _You can't think like that_ , he told himself. _You know better_.

Hotchner listened and took notes. When his opinion was asked (which wasn't often but always by Reid), he kept his comments precise. He made eye contact like he would if he were explaining something to a jury. However, the more Greenaway and Morgan talked through the autopsy photos and report, the more he believed that Wellman's death had nothing to do with the disappearances of Baumstein and Feinberg.

If the UnSub had wanted to end the child's suffering, there were a lot more effective ways of doing it. Suffocation and overdosing came quickly to mind; a blow to the back of the head was violent. For Hotchner, the partially-healed bruises and Wellman's frequent trips to the pediatrician combined with the posing of the body all added up to parental violence ending in the death of the boy.

Hotchner kept his thoughts to himself. If _he_ could come to those conclusions, then this team could as well.

The briefing lasted for thirty minutes before Reid called it quits.

"We have another four hours flight time," the unit chief announced. "Let's rest up while we can." He pointedly looked at Greenaway, who arched an eyebrow at him. "That goes for everyone." He then glanced over his shoulder at Jareau, who was typing on her Blackberry. " _Every_ one."

"Everyone," Jareau repeated in a sing-song voice and then flipped her hair over her shoulder as she rolled her eyes.

Hotchner almost laughed. Almost. He watched as Morgan moved to the front right corner of the cabin and slid on noise-cancelling headphones while Greenaway took the front left corner, white ear buds stark against her dark hair. Jareau remained in her spot, still typing. When Reid cleared his throat, she let out a sigh, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Okay, Dad, jeez," and put her Blackberry in its holder.

Reid settled back in his seat and gave Hotchner a sidelong glance. "The couch is yours. Garcia said you had the middle seat on the way out."

"I'm fine, sir. If you would like it …"

Reid held up his hand as he closed his eyes. "Just take the couch, Hotch."

Flattered by the way Reid said his nickname, he murmured, "Yes, sir."

#####

From the moment they deplaned, they were in constant motion. Reid's reminder of survival rates of abducted children was chilling, but it immediately changed Hotchner's mindset from "they're judging everything I do" to "you're here to find out what happened and to do whatever you can to bring those children home."

Hotchner paid attention. He followed orders even if he was disappointed that Morgan was assigned to coordinate with the local SWAT. Hotchner ended up with Greenaway as they went through the condo where the suspected UnSub was living, each reporting on what they found in the rooms.

"Not bad, Hot Shot," Greenaway complimented after he relayed his thoughts.

"Thank you," he replied, paused and then ventured with the correction, "and it's Hotch."

Greenaway gave him a sassy smile and dialed her phone. "Of course, it is," she said as she sauntered by, but for the rest of the case, she called him Hotch.

It wasn't until Reid declared that he was going to go in and talk down the UnSub, unarmed and without Kevlar just like in Seattle, that Hotchner asserted himself. "Sir, you cannot go in there like that."

Reid lifted his chin, his glare sharp and intimidating. "This isn't a debate, Agent Hotchner."

"Sir, going in there without your weapon and Kevlar is a mistake," Hotchner insisted, his tone hard. "Barry Isbalm is the same height, weight and build as you. His hair color and style are similar to yours. The media has already crucified the Scottsdale PD over this case, so you have a group of LEOs who want to make things right, a group who still believe the Wellman case is connected, and a group who wants to redeem themselves. By going in there without your Kevlar vest, you've made yourself an unintentional target if something were to go wrong."

"You don't trust this SWAT because you're not in charge of them?"

"That is irrelevant," Hotchner fired back. "In the past five years, seven SPD officers have been caught in friendly fire." He refrained from adding, _You're already down two people. You don't need to be the third._

The entire BAU team stared at Hotchner before Greenaway finally said, "He's got a point, Reid."

"The profile indicates that Isbalm respects authority," Morgan added. "Seeing FBI in big ol'block letters? That'll do it."

Hotchner swallowed but didn't break his gaze from Reid's angry one. Another few seconds went by before the unit chief shook his head slightly and held out his hand for his weapon that Jareau was holding.

"Morgan, with me," Reid said as he holstered his weapon and redid the closures on his vest. He then stalked over to the entrance to the storage unit where Isbalm was holed up with his two victims, Morgan in tow.

"Ballsy there, Hotch," Greenaway said quietly. "Real ballsy."

He didn't grin or smile. He scowled because one of _them_ should have stopped Reid, not some candidate for the job.

He didn't have much time after that as they got into position and listened over their earpieces as Morgan, not Reid, talked Isbalm down. The boys were released but hadn't come through their ordeal unscathed. Jareau and Greenaway were the only ones the boys would talk to. Morgan shoved Isbalm into the back of the cruiser hard enough that the vehicle rocked.

An hour later, Hotchner found himself back at the Scottsdale PD station and helping Greenaway and Morgan pack things away while Jareau handled the press conference. The conversation was minimal; neither BAU agents attempted to engage him and, while he was tempted to start one of his own, he could tell by the set of their shoulders and chins that they didn't want to talk.

"A moment with Agent Hotchner, please," Reid called from the doorway. Immediately, the other two dropped what they were doing and left the room. Hotchner stood at the table, placing the files down and keeping his hands at his side. Reid entered the room and closed the door. He gestured to one of the seats. "I know this wasn't the interview you were expecting."

"No, sir, it wasn't," Hotchner admitted as he sat down.

Reid dropped into a chair and leaned back, his body language open and calm yet his gaze was piercing. "You're a contradiction."

"Pardon me, sir?"

"A contradiction," Reid repeated as he snorted a little. "You're clearly an Alpha male, which you demonstrated in Seattle with your SWAT team in both a work and a social setting. Yet on this case?" He shrugged. "There were several instances where you could have exerted your status. There were ample opportunities for you to do some self-promotion, not only with me but with the other members of the team. Yet … you chose not to." He paused. "Well, not until we were going to confront the UnSub."

"With respect, sir …" Hotchner began.

The unit chief held up his hand and Hotchner fell silent. Reid tilted his head sideways. "Most agents would have made a more emotional appeal or simply stuck to variations of how it was suicide or that I'm crazy. They would have addressed the team, trying to get them on their side. You didn't. You addressed me directly. You chose logic."

"I argued my case to the judge," he said simply.

Reid's eyebrows shot up for a moment and then he grinned widely. "That you did." He glanced at his watch. "I've kept you long enough. Garcia's arranged your return flight to Seattle, which leaves in two hours. I believe she said USAir. You should have a text on your phone with your confirmation information. She promised to get you an aisle bulkhead seat." Before Hotchner could say anything, Reid continued. "It doesn't make any sense for you to come back with us to Quantico just to return to Seattle. Sorry, the BAU doesn't have a frequent flyer program."

It teased a smile out of Hotchner despite his disappointment at not being able to do a more formal interview. Then again, Reid was decidedly unorthodox and, well, _Actions speak louder than words_ , Hotchner told himself before mentally adding, _They'd better_.

"There are three other candidates for this posting," Reid said bluntly. "I hope to be done by the end of the week, if another case doesn't come up."

"Don't you mean, if another three cases do come up?" Hotchner ventured, doing his best to keep the genuine curiosity out of his tone.

Reid only shrugged as he got to his feet and held out his hand. "Safe travels."

 _He didn't answer. That has to be a good sign_ , he thought to himself but made sure he kept his featured neutral. "Same to you and the team, sir," Hotchner replied as he shook the chief's hand.

#####

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the series premiere, Elle wasn't officially part of the team. She "wanted that spot" and asked Morgan for pointers. It was her plan that they used to lure the UnSub to the abandoned house to arrest. It's also clear that Gideon is familiar with her record; he mentioned that the one word that kept popping up in her files was "impatient." However, Greenaway proves herself by correctly identifying the behavior of the driver and leading to another break in the case.
> 
> Finally, given the information presented in the ep, it's safe to assume that the "open spot" was because a BAU agent died in Boston.
> 
> So, that's just my rambling way of explaining my thought process behind this chapter and Reid bringing Hotch along to evaluate his performance during the case.


	4. Bale Him Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the only card-carrying lawyer the BAU has, Hotchner is assigned his first case: interview Adrian Bale with legendary profiler Jason Gideon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An AU look at "Won't Get Fooled Again."

The phone call at three-eleven a.m. jolted Hotchner out of his sleep. He answered groggily, wondering who in God's name would be calling him at this hour. If it was his brother Sean, his younger sibling was definitely going to get an earful, especially if he was calling drunk.

The voice on the other end of the line was male and sounded chipper. "We've booked you on the six-ten to Atlanta. You'll meet up with Gideon to interview Adrian Bale."

Hotchner sat up, trying to make sense of what was said. "Huh?"

"Six-ten flight on Delta. Sorry that doesn't give you much time. We'll send you a text with the flight info. Bulkhead aisle, right?"

"Who the hell is this?" he demanded, because he wouldn't put it past some of the jokers at the office to prank him. Three weeks had gone by without a word from Quantico (not even a reply to his emails); the guys thought it hysterical that he jumped to answer every phone call on the first ring.

"Oh. This is Spencer Reid." The other man laughed sheepishly. "Sorry about that. Anyway, we have a serial bomber in Palm Springs and the bomb's signature matches Bale's. Morgan is in Quantico examining the fragments to see if the UnSub added his own twist. Gideon's going to interview Bale at the penitentiary but I need someone on the ground with him. We're probably going to have to offer plea deal in order to get any information. I want to make sure what's offered doesn't compromise us."

Hotchner was now fully awake, sitting up and moving to get out of bed. "I'm honored you would consider me, sir, but surely there are other agents closer …"

"There are other agents," Reid conceded. "But you're the only card-carrying lawyer the BAU has."

It took a full five seconds for what the man had said to register and even then, Hotchner wasn't sure if he heard right. "Sir?"

"I need someone with practical legal expertise on the ground with Gideon," Reid explained patiently. "If it gets to the point where we have to offer a plea deal, your experience as a prosecutor is going to come in handy." There was a pause. "Oh. Welcome to the BAU, Hotch. Garcia's sending you information on the original Bale case and what we have now to your personal fax. Gideon will meet you at the airport in Atlanta. Safe travels." The line when dead.

Hotchner pulled back his phone and stared at it. He shook his head. "Welcome to the BAU, indeed."

It wasn't until Hotchner was actually on the plane to Atlanta and reviewing the information he'd been sent when he realized that his own 'legal expertise' was only part of the equation. Hotchner had no history with Bale. He hadn't known Hazelton either. So in many ways, he was an impartial third party, one that Bale would have a harder time manipulating.

It was a bit unnerving, but Hotchner pushed it aside. He settled back in the seat, and briefly wondered how Garcia had managed to score him a bulkhead aisle seat on a sold-out flight with such short notice. He checked his watch and knew he had three more hours until they landed in Atlanta, which was plenty of time to nap.

Oh. And to allow himself a goofy smile as he savored his personal victory. He made the BAU.

_He made it._

#######

Agent Jason Gideon was aloof, dismissive. It was clear that he was unhappy that Hotchner had been assigned to tag along, and the ground rules that Gideon set forth were positively insulting, mostly because of how condescending he was. _Speak only when spoken to. Do not engage Bale. Do not make eye contact with Bale. If Bale attempts to initiate conversation, ignore him._ Defer to Gideon for every single thing.

To which Hotchner replied evenly, "I'll follow your lead, sir, unless our position in negotiations is compromised."

Gideon's glare was lethal. "Do not play games with me, Hot Shot."

"I won't," he retorted unflinchingly. "And it's Hotch or Hotchner. Your choice."

The older man sneered, "Do you honestly believe that every member of this team _doesn't_ know you've been called Hot Shot since high school?"

"I believe that my preference to be addressed otherwise will be respected."

For a moment, Gideon said nothing. Then, he took a menacing step forward and spat, "You weren't his first choice."

It was meant to rattle him, of course, but Hotchner replied coolly, "But I'm the one here now."

Gideon spun on his heels and walked swiftly away, and Hotchner prayed that he really didn't just hear the mumbled, "We'll see how long," from the senior profiler.

#######

The first confrontation with Bale had Gideon facing down his nemesis alone. Hotchner watched on closed-circuit TV and had a direct line to the other agent via an earwig. He agreed to the setup only because Bale could resort to posturing instead of giving the answers that they needed. It was easy to see why Gideon was considered one of the best, even if he did needlessly threaten Bale with 'making his life even worse' if Bale was connected to the Palm Beach Bomber.

At the conclusion of the interview, Hotchner agreed with Gideon's assessment: if Bale was in control of the bombings, he would have taunted them with specifics. Not that Gideon asked for his opinion. The other agent continued to treat him with disdain.

God, it was like dealing with his own father.

Hotchner folded his arms across his chest as he listened to the one-sided conversation Gideon had with Reid, which concluded with, "We're heading back to Palm Springs now."

When Gideon hung up, Hotchner said, "I think it may be beneficial for me to stick around to observe Bale. He has privileges and I don't think he'll be able to resist sending a message out to his followers, bragging that he spoke to you. I think we can cull a suspect list from whatever contacts he makes or websites he visits."

Gideon narrowed his eyes for a moment before he ordered, "Stay here. Work with Garcia to get a list. And next time, speak when you're spoken to."

_He needs to establish dominance,_ was Hotchner's first thought. _He doesn't play well with others._ Aloud, he acknowledged the directive (well, not all of it) and headed back to the warden.

#######

Two hours later, Hotchner found himself heading to Palm Springs on a private jet with Bale and four federal marshals. Their UnSub, David Walker, had blown himself up when Reid and Greenaway had tracked him down in the office building across from the police station, probably in response to Bale's online message about his only regret was being taken alive.

Bale attempted to strike up a conversation with Hotchner several times. Starting with the predictable, "You must be new" and then recounting the events in Boston in explicit detail. Bale made embellishments, but Hotchner refused the bait. Despite his earlier feelings about Gideon forbidding him to interact with Bale, Hotchner realized that it was part of an overall tactic. Bale craved attention. He relished evoking emotional responses.

Hotchner simply sat on the plane and ignored him. He didn't put his back to him; that would be stupid even if Bale was in wrist and ankle cuffs. Instead, he kept his posture casual as he opened his worn copy of _The Firm_ to a random page and began reading. Bale continued his litany, questioning Gideon's integrity and wondering aloud if anyone would ever trust a man too stupid to figure out that Bale had a remote for the bomb.

Once they got to the station, Reid pulled Hotchner aside, careful not to allow Bale to see him doing so. "He called you Agent Grisham," Reid observed.

"Gideon said not to interact with him," Hotchner replied plainly. "So on the trip down, I read _The Firm._ Well, pretended to read. I listened to what he was saying."

"Conclusions?"

"He's going to push the limits in exchange for his cooperation," he answered. He then frowned. "But I think more than anything else, he wants to publicly humiliate Gideon."

Reid nodded. "I'll need you in there during the negotiations."

"I believe you mentioned that this morning, sir," Hotchner replied dryly.

That earned a snort. "You'll need to be the one to say that Bale's demands are outrageous, that whatever he asks for isn't something we would give to a common criminal," Reid said after a moment. "Also, address Gideon as Jason."

"Establishing familiarity?"

"Exactly. Hopefully, it will give us what we need."

Five minutes later, Hotchner was in full lawyer mode as he scoffed at Bale's demands. When Bale demanded Gideon's confession, Hotchner did exactly what Reid suggested as he said, "Jason. That's enough."

Bale's eyes glowed.

All Hotchner could think was, _There's no way Bale is going to tell us the truth._

He wasn't sure how he felt when it turned out he was right.

#######

After the case was over, weather in the DC area kept them grounded in Palm Springs for the evening. It was Reid who suggested grabbing dinner at the local pub that Dan Tracy recommended. Hotchner wasn't surprised when Gideon declined.

Tracy and his team joined the BAU in a round of drinks. Hotchner automatically fell back into his role of unofficial host, making sure that Jareau and Greenaway (JJ and Elle, they corrected him on the ride over to the restaurant) were settled before joining Reid a few tables away from the ruckus.

Again, Hotchner had a glass of iced tea and, again, Reid had a glass of brandy. For several minutes, they sat in silence, watching as JJ and Elle flirted and joked with Tracy's team.

Finally, Reid spoke. "This wasn't the formal 'welcome to the BAU' that I was hoping for."

The comment took Hotchner by surprise. He laughed a little. "You're saying there's a party with my name on it in Quantico?"

"Garcia will make sure you have cupcakes when we get back. Red Velvet with cream cheese frosting," Reid answered, expression going a little dreamy. "Unless, of course, you'd like another kind."

"Red Velvet is fine," he assured him, warmed by the thoughtfulness but also a little unnerved that red velvet just happened to be his cake flavor of choice.

"When it's your birthday, she goes all out." Reid sipped his brandy. "Confetti, streamers, trick candles, joy buzzers, Silly String and balloons. Oh, and the cake hat."

"Cake hat?"

"It's made of felt," he explained. "It's hideous but she insists that you wear it for the entire day, else she'll Photoshop you into a truly embarrassing situation and post it in the kitchenette."

Hotchner's mouth dropped open. "She's … done that?" He didn't say, _...and you let her?_

"Anderson ended up in full a mariachi costume and standing next to a donkey with a sign reading, 'Watch my show,'" Reid confided with a conspiratorial wink. "Levity is a rare commodity in the BAU. Garcia reminds us to laugh."

He thought about it for a moment and recalled her attire from the day he met her. Smiley-faced buttons and troll dolls on the end of her pencil. If Reid did science experiments to relax, it was clear that a little outrageousness was Garcia's style.

Reid took a slow sip of his brandy, swirling the glass as he lowered it. "Would you have overridden Gideon's order if he had said to cut the red wire instead of the blue?"

Hotchner's belly clenched. He wasn't expecting the conversation to turn back to today's events. The automatic answer should have been, _Absolutely yes,_ in order to bolster his position within the team. However, he didn't think himself as that kind of man. "I'm not sure, sir."

"But you knew that Bale would lie."

"I thought he might," Hotchner admitted, "but I wasn't sure."

"What tipped you off?"

"It was the way he relished in Gideon's confession," he explained. "The specific demands that Gideon admitted that Bale outsmarted him, how Bale was better than him. It was like …" He trailed off and glanced down at his glass of iced tea. "It was like he couldn't resist besting Gideon again."

Reid eyed him for a moment before saying, "You have good instincts."

"Thank you, sir."

"We're in a bar, Hotch. You can stop with the 'sirs.' And before you say, 'Habit,' I know. During a case, if makes you feel more comfortable, then fine. But off-duty? Reid works just fine."

"I'll try my best."

"I know you will." Reid met his gaze again. "Oh, and next time? Don't keep your opinions to yourself." Hotchner winced and opened his mouth to say something, but Reid didn't give him a chance. "We function as a team, each of us having different backgrounds that enable us to provide various viewpoints into the case."

"Yes …" Hotchner managed to swallow the 'sir' before it left his lips. Reid offered a small smile and went back to sipping his brandy.

The post-case tension was still there, hanging between them. Hotchner took a deep breath and then fished out the plastic baggie with the sugar and sweeteners from their first meeting. It was a risky move, but since he already had the job, it couldn't really be seen as a blatant suck up. Maybe. "Should I order four iced teas?"

Reid suddenly beamed, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes. He looked remarkably younger, the lines around his mouth and eyes going from serious to mischievous. He gleefully rubbed his hands together. "Let's start with half-glasses with no ice," he said as he fished out his notebook from his ever-present messenger bag. "And get five. They have Sugar in the Raw here."

And Aaron Hotchner decided that he would carry sugar packets with him wherever they went just to see that smile.

########

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the beginning, this isn't a Gideon-friendly AU. While I don't consider myself anti-Gideon, I've rewatched S1 & S2 a few times and found myself struck by how mean-spirited Gideon could be. While the writers' intentions were probably to show Gideon's intuitive brilliance, it can come off as arrogance and is off-putting in some episodes, especially when it comes to his "Gideon knows best" attitude.
> 
> It's clear that the Adrian Bale bombings took a lot out of him and I believe he never recovered from it. Also, this is Gideon's first introduction to Hotchner (aside from classes at Quantico), and Hotchner is the first BAU agent that Gideon did not personally vet before being brought on board.


	5. Restless Nights, BAU Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some mornings it was almost impossible for Hotch to look Reid straight in the eye. What could he say? "Sir, remember when we first met and I called you a prosecutor's wet dream? Turns out you are."

Life in the BAU alternated between heavy travel and being stuck in the office working consults and cold cases. Not every case had a happy ending, so Hotch quickly learned to take a win no matter how small. The BAU-inspired nightmares were unnerving as well, and Hotch wasn't sure if he was thankful that he couldn't remember much about them.

Waking up in a sweat-soaked bed wasn't any fun. He did his best to cope with the nightmares and was thankful that no one called him out on the mornings he looked liked death warmed over.

It seemed that the evenings he didn't have nightmares, he dreamed about his boss. _Those_ he remembered in vivid detail, and given their very explicit sexual nature, some mornings it was almost impossible to look Reid straight in the eye. What could he say? _Sir, remember when we first met and I called you a prosecutor's wet dream? Turns out you are. I've been having erotic dreams about you. I wake up with a mess in my shorts like some horny teenager._

Hotch was sort-of comfortable with his own bisexuality, but it wasn't something he advertised or really acted on. After breaking up with Haley Brooks after his freshman year of college, Hotch dated mostly women. He couldn't really say he _dated_ another man; 'interacted' seemed too impersonal of a term, but he wasn't quite how to describe it. Two college guys hanging out, getting drunk (sometimes but other times just using it as an excuse), messing around, and the next morning, promptly ignoring that they had messed around. Still, those few men had several things in common with Reid: intellectual, well-spoken, tall, and lanky.

Yes, Reid was "his type," but Reid was also his boss. The anti-fraternization policies were not as stringent as people were lead to believe; the lawyer in Hotch found the loopholes on a whim (okay, on a night when he couldn't get the images of dead little boys out of his mind and entertaining an illicit affair with Reid was a good distraction). However, it was a line that Hotch believed Reid was unlikely to cross.

It took an epic amount of willpower, but Hotch was able to shove those particular thoughts into a corner of his mind. He concentrated on his job and getting to know the rest of the BAU. While Morgan played up his ladies' man image, Hotch knew that the other man's extracurricular activities went beyond clubbing, teaching self-defense and working out. There were several times that Morgan arrived at the BAU with paint flecks dotting his knuckles and the back of his head while drywall dust clung to his leather jacket.

Elle was an avid salsa dancer; her shoes had fallen out of her bag once and there was more than one occasion when she showed up wearing a flesh-colored ankle brace on her left foot. Garcia's cosplay hobby was no secret, neither was JJ's passion for the Washington Redskins. Anderson preferred rugby over soccer. Wendy was a vegan at home but a carnivore in the field.

Hotch supposed he knew bits about every member of the BAU.

He also liked to think he pretty much got along with everyone.

Well. Almost everyone.

He had no problem with 'the grunts,' which was what Elle affectionately called those in the bullpen. Hotch had a friendly rivalry with Morgan, Elle gave him all sorts of good-natured hell, JJ became the kid sister he never had, and Garcia fussed over him when she wasn't fussing over Morgan.

His issue wasn't with Reid either, obviously.

The person Hotch found himself at constant odds with was Gideon, and he wondered what he'd done to provoke such a reaction. He was no threat to Gideon's position as second-in-command; it was clear from Section Chief Strauss's visits to the bullpen that Morgan was next in line if there was going to be a change in the BAU's power structure.

Gideon doled out compliments to Elle, JJ and Morgan but only handed out thinly-veiled insults to Hotch. He was the only one who used Hotch's full last name while the others called him by his nickname. The moment he made a mistake, Gideon admonished him with some variation of, "How could you be so stupid?" Sometimes it was in front of the others; sometimes it was in private.

Hotch liked to believe it was Gideon's way of toughening him up to go against those UnSubs who could profile just as good as they could. However, in the back of his mind, he knew it was more personal than that. He was Hazelton's replacement, Gideon still felt guilty about Hazelton's death, and Gideon's hostility towards him was due to the transference.

So, Hotch approached it like he approached every other person who verbally attacked him over the years. He sucked it up. He refused to react. Hell, he even thanked Gideon for pointing out his mistakes.

It was fucked up, certainly, but it was a tolerable situation.

Really.

It was.

**######**


	6. Course Correction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While sharing a hotel room in Montgomery, Alabama, Reid confronts Hotch about Gideon and how it affects the team.

It wasn't until Hotch's sixth month with the BAU that they were forced to share hotel rooms because of a city-wide convention. Morgan and Gideon had doubled up (Hotch hoped his sigh of relief wasn't as loud as he thought it was), leaving Hotch with Reid.

It was surprising yet refreshing to discover he shared similar habits with his unit chief. He pointedly ignored the little voice inside his head that snickered, _So, so compatible. Just like in your dreams._ Their dop kits were similar as well, although Reid was the one who had condoms and lube discretely tucked into the side pouch; the only reason Hotch found them was because he had asked to use Reid's toothpaste since he'd left his home.

_Perfect fodder_ _for my overactive imagination_ , Hotch thought miserably. _Please don't let me have embarrassing dreams in which I call out his name and say something humiliating like, 'Please, suck my cock_.'

Fortunately, the case was intense enough that for the first three nights, Hotch immediately fell into a dreamless sleep. On the fourth night, Hotch returned from the workout room, patting himself on the back for being able to keep up with Morgan's insane pace on the treadmill. Late-night exercise actually helped curb his nightmares but he had to be careful not to overdo it.

He found Reid literally standing on his head against the far wall, which was the first time the man had done it while they were sharing. Odd, for certain, but then Hotch remembered a throwaway comment Reid had made about yoga four cases ago. Hotch didn't know much about the practice, so he refrained from making some snarky observation. He would tease Morgan, certainly, but never Reid.

Reid's undershirt had slid down to his armpits, revealing pale skin and lean muscles. The man's pajama pants gave in to gravity as well, revealing a nasty scar on his knee.

_Stop staring_ , Hotch ordered himself. It was true that he found himself courting Reid's smile and laugh more often. As serious as the chief could be, his brand of humor was delightfully offbeat. He also realized that Reid rarely went off on a tangent about some esoteric fact for no reason. It sometimes took days for Hotch to link the conversation back to something relevant, usually about a case or some snippet of a casual conversation. He found he didn't mind at all.

Aaron Hotchner most definitely did _not_ have a crush on his boss. He most definitely did _not_ get jealous when people flirted with Reid when they were all out together.

He most definitely had to stop staring at his boss's bared midriff and wondering what the man's skin tasted like.

Hotch announced he was going to take a shower and heard the muffled, "Okay."

Ten minutes later, Hotch emerged from the bathroom dressed in his boxers and t-shirt. Hotch was still a little embarrassed because he wasn't wearing formal pajamas like Reid. Then again, he wasn't expecting on sharing a room when they'd initially gotten the case.

Reid was sprawled on the bed nearest the window, flipping through channels on the TV with the volume off. It was somewhat late—just after ten—and they had a very early start tomorrow morning. Their UnSub de jour killed his victims at sunrise, and Reid predicted they'd have another victim tomorrow based on the pattern so far, which was why he had insisted on them all calling it an early night.

Hoping for a light, easy conversation that always set him at ease, Hotch asked, "Was that yoga?"

"Mm-hmmm," Reid answered, still flipping through channels.

It wasn't a sharp dismissal, but still Hotch knew an 'I'm not in the mood for whatever conversation you have in mind' sound when he heard it. He fished out his copy of _The Da Vinci Code_ and settled in to bed.

"That's full of historical inaccuracies, you know," Reid commented after a few moments.

Hotch chuckled. "I suppose it is."

"He plagiarized most of it."

"The same can be said of Shakespeare. _King Lear_ especially."

"There weren't any real copyright laws back then," Reid replied as he sat up, turned off the TV, and placed the remote on the nightstand between their beds. "And he transformed stories into plays. In modern terms, that would be an adaptation."

"Would it help if I said that half the fun is recognizing which parts are complete BS? It's not as bad as _Deception Point_. I can suspend my disbelief quite well, but having the protagonist tapping out an S-O-S on glacier and a passing Navy sub just _happens_ to pick up is just too much to ask."

Reid gave a small smile. "Good point." He cleared his throat. "Listen, Aaron, there's something we need to discuss."

Just like that, the light mood turned serious. The use of his first name sent a cold chill down his spine. He let out a breath and closed the book. "Okay."

"It's about Gideon. Normally, I allow agents to work their differences out among themselves," he stated, as he sat on the edge of the bed, rested his forearms on his knees, and clasped his hands together. "But I feel that this is something that's not going to go away easily."

Hotch automatically mimicked Reid's posture. He swallowed hard. His mind raced.

Reid let out a long sigh. "I know you'll answer me honestly, so I'm just gonna ask. Was there an altercation between you and Gideon that I need to know about?"

Hotch frowned. "No, sir," because it was true. Hell, he went out of his way not to antagonize the other agent.

"Aaron, it's after ten in the evening, I'm wearing pajamas with Fibonacci spirals and you're in your underwear," came the gentle admonishment. "I think we can dispense with the formalities. Please, call me Spencer."

"Spencer," he dutifully repeated.

"Thank you." Reid paused again. He met Hotch's gaze with a steady one of his own. "I'm concerned how this is affecting the team."

Hotch let out a breath and turned his head. "I don't know what to say."

"You haven't said anything, which concerns me."

His gaze flew to his superior's. "It hasn't affected…"

"It _has_ affected the team," Reid interrupted, voice gentler than Hotch was expecting. "Until you came onboard, Morgan would rather sleep in the SUV than bunk with Gideon. But when it became apparent that we had to share on this case, he offered to share with Gideon without hesitation."

Hotch set his jaw. He straightened and saw the concerned look on Reid's face. "I'd like to think that Gideon's … attitude towards me as being toughened up. There's going to be an UnSub out there who can profile me just as good—maybe even better—than anyone here. And if that UnSub targets me, I'd like to think that I can withstand that barrage, thanks to Gideon's efforts."

Reid shook his head, disappointment clear in his features. "You'll allow yourself to be possibly emotionally abused because you think it will make you a better person."

"It will make me a better profiler."

"Aaron …"

"Are we done, sir?"

Reid's shoulders slumped. However, his voice took on a dispassionate edge. "I'm sure you know by now that Hazelton was hand-picked by Gideon and that Gideon considered the man his protégé, as he does now with Elle and Morgan. You replaced Hazelton. He didn't have the opportunity to vet you like he has for every candidate for the past fifteen years. You …" He made eye contact with Hotch. "You don't seek his counsel like Elle or Morgan or any number of BAU agents. You don't chase after him with questions like, 'why did the Footpath Killer stutter?' which is a stumper than still has cadets lining up in his office to ask." He leaned back. "So clearly, there is something you see that the rest of us can't. What is it?"

"I refuse to profile a fellow team member."

Reid's laugh was sharp, cold. "You're the one who made it formal, Agent Hotchner. You're the one who called me 'sir.' So. This isn't an Embassy Suites near Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama. It's my office in Quantico. We're not in our PJs, but dressed how we usually do. Today is the second Wednesday of the month, so you're wearing your light gray suit, white shirt with French cuffs, burgundy tie with the silver triangles, and your monogrammed cufflinks. This isn't a late night conversation between two friends, but one between a superior and a subordinate. Therefore, answer the question, Agent Hotchner."

Hotch's mouth went dry. Another chill raced down his spine. The line about what suit he wore on a specific day completely unnerved him, and no amount of compartmentalizing was going to ease that feeling anytime soon.

He focused on the small stain on the carpet near Reid's tennis shoes.

"Look at me," Reid snapped.

Hotch immediately complied. He struggled to swallow. Reid's gaze was fiery. It took two tries, but finally he admitted, "I only met Gideon once before I joined the team. It was while I was still at the Academy and he taught the introduction to profiling class. He never seemed… approachable.

"My observations … Gideon still suffers from PTSD. He needs to feel needed. He craves the adulation of younger, more inexperienced agents because it gives him the sense of accomplishment he lost when those agents were killed in Boston. It's why he holds his opinions close to his chest. He wants to dazzle people with his insight, but it comes off as arrogance instead of true inspiration which it likely is."

"Do you think he faked his way through a psych evaluation?"

He grimaced. "It's not a question of faking, but a matter of knowing how to answer the questions correctly." He looked away and whispered miserably, "You didn't challenge the results."

Silence hung in the room and Hotch sat on the bed, shoulders aching from the tension and knuckles white from him clasping them together so tightly.

"Do you think lesser of me?"

"He was your mentor," Hotch answered hoarsely. "We all want to think our mentors are omnipotent, omniscient and infallible even if we know that they're not."

The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound in the room for the longest time. Then, Reid let out a long sigh. "So Gideon's the pope now?

"Jesus was Jewish, so it's possible."

That elicited a snort from Reid. "Are we done being SSA SAC Doctor Reid and SSA Hotchner?"

Hotch nodded. "Yes."

"Just so you know, I've never thought you the type to put yourself above the team. You are not petty like that," Reid added. "You proved that in Scottsdale, in Palm Springs, and on any number of cases. You're confident in your abilities. You don't feel the need to put someone else down to further your career. So when I ask your opinion on something, understand that I don't automatically assume you're putting yourself ahead of the others. Do you get that?"

"I do now."

"Good." He shook himself a little and then added quietly. "Gideon's going to keep pushing you. Personally, I don't think it's to 'toughen you up' but to chase you off, but I trust your judgment. But … It's only a matter of time until Gideon decides to go after your parental issues."

Hotch jerked his gaze up, his belly tightening.

"We try not to profile each other, but we do anyway. I'm sure you've picked up on what Elle's and Morgan's issues are, but you'd never use it against them. You're too honorable to do that." Reid's expression was sad yet compassionate. He then shook his head. "You do realize that Gideon's going to pick the moment when you're the most vulnerable to shame you. He'll try to humiliate you to the point where you believe you cannot face the Team again." He leaned forward and settled a hand on Hotch's shoulder. "Don't let it get to that."

"I'll … I'll try not to."

"Good." He gave Hotch's shoulder a light squeeze. "I know it's going to be difficult, but due try to get some sleep." Reid moved away and said, "Good night, Aaron."

"Good night," he replied, but he couldn't bring himself to say the man's first name.

#######


	7. Garrote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the garrote tightened around his throat, Hotch vowed, I'll never allow Gideon to have my back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An AU look at S1's "Natural Born Killer"

As the garrote tightened around his throat, Hotch vowed, _I'll never allow Gideon to have my back again_. They were in a junkyard tracking down an UnSub, and Gideon had told Hotch to take the lead. Tactically, it made the most sense; Hotch was obviously much fitter and could chase down the UnSub more effectively than Gideon could. Plus, Hotch knew he was the better shot.

Realistically? Well, the whole point of having backup was that said backup came in like the Calvary to save the lead's ass if needed.

And Hotch definitely needed it.

He managed to get his feet underneath himself, coil just enough so that when he pushed back, he had more force. His attacker—Vincent Perotta—wasn't a run of the mill UnSub. No. This was a professional killer who had over one hundred victims to his credit.

It didn't stop Hotch from fighting, from throwing his head back in an attempt to head butt Perotta (which failed) to clawing at the hands holding the wire cutting into this throat (which also failed) to stomping down with his heel on Perotta's feet to gain leverage (which epically failed and was such a _girl_ thing to do).

White spots danced before his eyes as his lungs burned and he became lightheaded. Hotch kept fighting, because being strangled in a junkyard by a contract killer was a pretty shitty way to die.

Suddenly, he heard Reid's distinct shout of, "FBI! It's over Perotta!"

He was jerked back _hard_ and he momentarily lost his footing.

A loud shot rang out.

Warm liquid splattered against the side of Hotch's face, near his eyes, nose and mouth.

The garrote abruptly loosened.

Hotch shoved his elbows back sharply as Perotta's hands dropped away. Hotch fell to his knees, pulling the wire away. He scrambled forward, lungs searing as he took in huge breaths, the air tasting cold yet fetid. The concrete bit into his palms, which burned as badly as his throat. He kept his eyes closed because he could feel the wetness mixing with his own sweat and dripping down the side of his face.

_Blood._ The seminar on blood-borne pathogens that Reid insisted everyone in the BAU attend every six months came flooding back in Hotch's mind.

A hand touched his shoulder and he immediately batted it away, lunging for his backup strapped to his ankle but not coordinated to get it on the first try.

"Hotch! It's Reid! Perotta's dead. You're safe! You're safe!"

Hands were on Hotch's shoulders again, pushing him up into a sitting position and the rolling him a bit until he was sitting on his ass and leaning against a cold metal something.

"Hold on. Hold on," Reid ordered.

Hotch could hear the chief rustling and the rip of paper.

"Stay still. I'm going to wipe the blood away from your eye and mouth," Reid told him, tone switching from commanding to soothing.

Hotch nodded and rested his skull against the metal. He smelled the sharp tang of isopropyl alcohol before rough wet paper swiped under and around the corner of his eye, then his cheek and the side of his mouth. Then, he felt fingers tugging at the knot around his throat.

"Loosen your tie for once," Reid chided. Once his had the knot loose enough, he undid the top button of Hotch's dress shirt. "I got most of the gore. You should be able to open your eyes now."

And when he did, he stared into Reid's warm, concerned-filled eyes. Reid's fingers gently swiped around the inside of Hotch's shirt collar so that the fabric didn't rest against his skin. Reid was so close.

So … _close_.

"I could kiss you right now," Aaron blurted hoarsely, wondering where in God's name those traitorous words came from.

Reid's hand stilled against his neck, but his face registered no shock or revulsion at Hotch's declaration. "Maybe some other time," Reid said softly, fondly. His lips quirked into that amused little smile of his, the one that Hotch found himself courting when they had private conversations. He paused for a moment, thumb brushing the side of Hotch's neck. "You've won a trip to the hospital. No arguments."

"I'm fine."

"You missed the part where I said, 'no arguments.'" Reid rocked back on his haunches before standing up. He held out a hand, which Hotch accepted, and helped Hotch to his feet.

Hotch was still a little woozy, so he steadied himself against the junker behind him. He looked over to where the EMTs were lowering Perotta's body onto the plastic. Morgan was to one side and Elle on the other.

Gideon was nowhere in sight.

A chill ran through Hotch again, but then he felt Reid's hand wrap around his elbow. "I won't make you ride in the bus," the chief said as he tugged gently at Hotch to get him to move. "But you're going to the hospital."

Knowing he sounded petulant, he still said, "I hate the hospital."

Reid snorted. "Don't we all."

#########

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten several questions about "where's Gideon". My original intention was to leave it up to the readers. Was Gideon genuinely leaving Hotch "out to dry" at the hands of an UnSub? Or was Reid's timing just much better? Maybe Gideon had a sudden panic attack that paralyzed him long enough for Hotch to get separated and subsequently attacked by Perotta. Honestly, I don't Gideon would jeopardize Hotch's life. IIRC in the ep, Hotch and Gideon were separated in the junkyard; Gideon got to him first and then the rest of the team showed up. It could have been that Reid got there first and, when Gideon saw that Hotch had almost been taken down, he walked off out of guilt because another agent could have been dead because of him.


	8. Spen-Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Reid had warned in Alabama, Gideon came after Hotch when the younger agent was at his most vulnerable. The profile was cruel and paralyzing. Sometimes, there was only one way to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An AU look at S1's "Blood Hungry"  
> In the original "Blood Hungry" episode, Gideon remained in Quantico. For this AU, he's with the Team in Tennessee. Yes, there are some direct quotes from the episode. No infringement is intended.

Tempers were short in Harringtonville, Tennessee. They were rushing against the clock to try to save Wally Brisbane and to find the UnSub with an anthropophagy kink who was more than likely responsible.

When they finally honed in on Eddy Mays and his socialite mother, Mary (who was doing a fair job at stonewalling the BAU), Gideon did just as Reid predicted those months ago.

He verbally went after Hotch in front of Elle, Morgan and JJ. Gideon focused on the similarities between the Mays and Hotch's parents, theorizing that Hotch had been verbally abused by his mother and physically by his father. The details. Oh, God, the details. His mother on vodka-valium train while his father stuck to scotch. How they controlled every aspect of his education until Hotch rebelled to become an FBI agent. How they doted on his youngest brother but nothing Hotch did was ever good enough for them. The nickname of Hot Shot and why he coveted being called that. His failed romantic relationships, using the words 'terminated' and 'aborted.'

It was cruel. It was vicious.

It was one-hundred percent on the mark.

It was paralyzing.

In all the scenarios Hotch played out in his mind about this moment, none of them featured him being unable to defend himself. He just stood there, the barbs tearing through his battered mental shields weakened by exhaustion from the case. Horrified, he could feel himself breaking, the light-headedness settling in. The way his stomach clenched and cold chills shot through his system. He struggled … he struggled …

"What the _hell_ , Gideon?" Elle hissed, coming to stand to Hotch's left while JJ stood to Hotch's right.

Morgan stepped between Hotch and Gideon, facing the older profiler. "This isn't helping, man."

There were those awful seconds of silence before Gideon took a step back, waved a finger at them silently, and then left the room.

Hotch's knees buckled and the women caught him by the elbows, easing him into the chair. Morgan still had his back to him so he didn't actually see Hotch collapse, which was not much of a consolation. Hotch's hands shook hard, his heart thundered in his chest, his eyes burned, and his breathing came in rapid bursts.

JJ grabbed one hand and Elle the other. It was Elle who ordered, "Morgan, find him a sandwich. OJ, too. He hasn't eaten since breakfast and it's well past dinner."

"There should be a box of protein bars in the SUV," JJ added. She squeezed Hotch's hand. "I know you hate the Kashi ones, Hotch, but that's all the Circle K had. That or beef jerky."

"He's from Virginia," Elle snorted. "I bet you he 'snaps into a Slim Jim' when we're not looking."

"Slim Jims aren't beef jerky," JJ fired back. "They're a smoked snack, whatever the hell that means."

"You're an expert on Slim Jims?"

"Ever play convenience store bingo with Reid? I swear I'll never eat another Cheeto for the rest of my life."

Hotch stared at the table, unable to move or speak. Humiliation seared to his core despite the unexpected, unselfish support he received from his teammates. Elle rubbed circles with her thumb on the back of his hand. His tie was loosened and the top button of his shirt was undone, but he wasn't sure by whom.

Slowly, his breathing returned to normal, but his vision was still focused on the table, the sounds around him muted.

He barely heard the question, "What happened?" from Reid followed by Elle and JJ's tag-team explanation.

"Hotch's blood sugar tanked."

"He skipped lunch when he had to go all-lawyer on the judge to get the 'medicate Eddy Mays' order."

"He missed dinner because he had to convince Mary Mays to sign the paper since she wouldn't listen to us."

"We've all skipped meals, Reid."

"Morgan's getting him something now."

Yet as they explained, they never let go of his hands.

Aaron wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He decided that it was a moot point.

"Drink this," Elle told him as she pressed a small can of juice in his hand. Aaron obeyed and managed to down the liquid without spilling any despite how badly his hands were shaking. Elle then snapped, "Peanut butter Combos? Jesus, Morgan! I said sandwich. Sandwich!"

"Hey! My sister has sugar issues," Morgan retorted. "She swears by peanut butter crackers but Combos work, too." Aaron felt the can being pulled from his grasp and the edges of a bag brushing his finger tips. Morgan's voice became hushed, "Reid, we're running out of time for Wally. It's supposed to get down to freezing tonight and if that kid is outside ..."

"Eat the Combos," JJ urged softly and he felt her push a piece into his hand. Elle moved away from him and he could hear her joining in the murmured conversation with Reid and Morgan.

But Aaron's attention zeroed in on Mary Mays, specifically that nagging feeling that had bothered him when he spoke to her this evening. Something was off, besides dealing with her son. He struggled to make the connection and then Gideon's nasty words about society matriarchs echoed in his mind.

He focused on the peanut-butter filled snack in his hand. "Her shoes aren't right."

"Hotch, just eat the pretzel," JJ soothed.

"No. Her shoes aren't right," Aaron repeated, louder. "She's wearing flats when she should be in heels."

"Okay, Hotch. I know things are little weird for you now …"

"No, you don't understand." He dragged his gaze to meet JJ's. "Mary Mays' maiden name is Gwathmey, an old Tidewater family. Old south. Old money. A lot of tradition there. A lot of reputation to protect. There's a certain way to dress. Appearance is crucial."

"Hotch …" Reid's tone was gentle, soft.

"She's not protecting her son," Aaron interrupted. His hands were shaking again. He swallowed hard. "She's protecting herself." He forced himself to meet Reid's gaze. "She knows where Wally is. She's visited him. That's why she's not wearing heels. Wherever he is, it's not easy to get to. He's still alive because she hasn't figured out how to solve the problem with the family reputation intact."

#########

Usually, after one of the Team made a case-breaking deduction based on an unorthodox source, good-natured teasing ensued, especially when it was something as esoteric as a woman's shoes. Especially when it was someone other than Gideon or Reid who made the connection.

There was none of that following the successful rescue of Wally Brisbane.

The flight back to Quantico was excruciatingly quiet. Although Hotch regained his sense of self enough to confront Mary Mays and convince her to reveal the location of Wally Brisbane (he was the only one with the social clout to do so), he knew that his teammates—especially Gideon—could see through the façade. He turned down offers to play Snack Mix Poker and M&M Gin Rummy, which he had never done before. As they deplaned, JJ suggested dinner at the Auld Dubliner, which was something that Hotch always did.

It was the first time Hotch took a pass.

He went home to the cold silence of his apartment. He sat in the dark, fully dressed, because he didn't have the energy do anything else.

His past, in all its ugly glory, had been laid out for the Team to see. The only consolation was that he'd been able to tap into those horrors and come up with a lead.

_Gideon will take credit_ , his mind whispered. _He'll use it to justify verbally attacking me in front of the team. He'll say that it was the only way to make me get into the mindset of Mary Mays._ It was quickly followed by, _Reid warned you. He tried to intervene, but you turned him down_.

Aaron pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs.

_You were so dead-set on proving you could handle yourself …_

_You showed them how pathetic you really were._

_You're weaker than the weakest woman! Turn in your badge now, boy. Give yourself the dignity of resigning before Reid fires your ass. You know how fast this rumor is going to go around the BAU. You remember what happened when Gerald from the second unit had a full-blown panic attack on that crime scene in Orlando! Yours was much, much worse._

Sharp knocks at his front door jolted Aaron out of his thoughts. He glanced at the clock on his cable box: 10:12. There was only one person who would dare to visit so late—Reid—so Aaron sat there, hoping his unit chief would go away.

The knocks came again, this time in a distinct "Shave and a Haircut" pattern. Aaron wearily got to his feet, because he knew that Reid wouldn't leave until he answered the door. Hell, Reid might even use the spare key that the chief had for everyone on the team.

As Hotch opened the door, Reid didn't wait for the invitation; he marched in and over to the couch. He flicked on the end table lamp and then returned to the door. He closed it, locked it, and then led Hotch over to the couch where they sat down.

"I want to apologize for what happened with Gideon," Reid said without preamble. "I let the situation get out of hand."

Aaron's response was automatic: "You can't blame yourself for someone else's actions."

"True, but I _can_ blame myself for not taking stronger action when I should have," he replied. "I've spoken to Gideon. What he did was unprofessional—no matter what rationalization he may give for it—and jeopardized the effectiveness of the team. Elle, Morgan and JJ want to file grievances, but have agreed that if you chose not to file a complaint, they will follow your lead.

"However, that does not preclude the actions I've taken to stabilize the team. Effective today, Gideon is on administrative leave and has been ordered to undergo a series of evaluations to determine his fitness not only in the field, but as an agent in whole." He let out a breath. "You were correct about last time he underwent the psych reviews. I did allow Gideon to pass after Boston because I want to believe that every single one of us can bounce back from every single thing."

"Sir …"

"Aaron, what Gideon did was inexcusable," Reid said, anger coloring his voice. "To your credit, you did not retaliate. It speaks to your character. To your integrity. You could have returned the favor and profiled him. He's not that hard to decipher and his sins are far worse than yours."

Aaron coughed hard as he shook his head. He choked out, "I didn't say anything because I … I _couldn't_."

"You experienced an episode of moderate to severe hypoglycemia."

"That wasn't why."

"It was a huge part of it, Aaron," Reid argued. "I know what I saw. Under normal circumstances, even with what was said, you would have handled it differently. You wouldn't have almost passed out."

Aaron pursed his lips, unable to think of anything to say.

Reid placed gentle hand on his shoulder. "Morgan, JJ and Elle came to your defense, because they consider you a good friend. They admire and respect you. They still do as do I. That hasn't changed." He gave a light squeeze.

"Stop."

"To your credit, you were able to take what happened and turn it into a positive. You gave us the break we needed."

"Please," he begged hoarsely. "Stop."

"You don't like compliments."

" _Please_."

"Fair enough." There was another squeeze.

"Thank you, sir," because it was the appropriate thing to say.

"You do know that we're off the clock. Officially."

Aaron closed his eyes. He hung his head. He felt he shakes return and Reid tightened his grip. He managed to get out, "Thank you, Spencer," because maybe if he addressed Reid by his first name, his boss would leave.

"Aaron," Reid chided softly. "I'm here as your friend."

He flinched but Reid's hand stayed on his shoulder. Aaron scowled as he confessed, "I didn't listen to you. I should have, but I didn't. I was arrogant."

"Your reasoning was … well, it made some sense at the time," Reid replied. "I don't think it was arrogance." He squeezed Aaron's shoulder again. There was a lengthy pause before he added, "The team's on stand down for the next four days. Before you begin thinking that it's because of what happened … well … We would have been on stand-down anyway," Reid said as he moved his hand away. "I don't want you to feel guilty about that."

"I'll try not to."

"I am concerned though."

Aaron straightened, lifting his chin and meeting Reid's gaze. "I can do this job." He almost tacked on a 'sir' but pressed his lips together instead.

"If you'd let me finish, I would have said, 'about your blood sugar,'" Reid replied, lips quirking slightly. "It's not the first time you've gotten too caught up with a case and have missed meals." He settled back against the couch. "As Elle said, we've all done it and we're usually pretty good about watching each other, but the severity of your hypoglycemic episode cannot be dismissed lightly."

Aaron didn't buy the whole 'blood sugar' explanation, but it was still a graceful out that he latched on to. "I don't have a physician here yet."

"I'm happy to make recommendations, if you'd like."

"I would like that, thank you."

"You're welcome." Reid shifted a little. "I don't see it as a hindrance to the job. Just something that you need to be aware of and take note of. There are some vulnerabilities that we have control over. That is one of them."

He echoed, "Vulnerabilities," because that was what Gideon had waited for: Aaron to be at his weakest, just as Reid predicted those months ago. It made him shudder.

"As compassionate as Gideon can be, he can also be mean-spirited," Spencer said sadly, immediately understanding the reference Aaron made. "While I'm not defending him, I don't think his issue is with you personally. In any other circumstance, I believe that Gideon would have accepted you outright, without issue."

"It's what I represent."

"Yes. Unfortunately, yes." Reid paused and cleared his throat a little. "I'll stay as long as you need tonight."

Aaron's almost snapped back that he didn't need a babysitter but stopped when he saw the look on Reid's face. It was open, honest, and full of concern.

The other man continued, "We don't have to talk. If you want to sit in the dark, well, we can do that. But I've found that sometimes having someone else here, one who has seen what we've seen and experienced what we've experienced, helps. It's the loneliness that can be overwhelming."

For a while, Aaron didn't say anything. He just stared at the coffee table and mulled over what Reid had said.

Finally, he got out, "I … I'd like that."

Then, they just sat there in silence. Reid moved away but didn't fidget, just sat calmly and quietly. Aaron closed his eyes, trying to absorb the peace that Reid seemed to radiate.

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep.

And thankfully, instead of a nightmare, his mind decided to focus on Reid.

Aaron's dreams about Reid tended to start off the same way: Reid's slender fingers caressing Aaron's temple and jaw, that soft voice calling his name, and Aaron tilting his head so the taller man could swoop down for a kiss. Aaron would then reach out, slide one hand around Reid's waist, and card his fingers of his other hand through Reid's short locks before resting on the nape of Reid's neck. He would tug slightly and then … then their lips would meet.

Always electric.

Always intense yet with that slow burn of savoring the taste of each other.

Always erotic because it was scandalous and forbidden and all those other adjectives to describe something Aaron wasn't supposed to indulge in.

But these were his dreams, so it was okay.

Some nights it was more tangible than others. Tonight? Oh, it definitely was going to be one of the better ones.

No fingers caressing his face, just a nudge on his shoulder and the soft, "Aaron."

Aaron turned slightly and reached out blindly like he always did, fingers brushing past the ever-present holster and latching on to the belt loop. Reid's head wasn't where it was supposed to be, so he slid his hand around that slender neck and gently pulled.

"Aaron," Reid repeated and, this time, Aaron's shoulder was shaken a bit harder.

"Mmm-hmm." He never really liked talking in these situations. He also liked to keep his eyes closed and just _feel_. Reid still wasn't positioned how he was supposed to be, so Aaron shifted and tugged. Reid's body didn't move, but Aaron could sense the man's face close to his. Growling a little, he cupped Reid's firm ass and pulled harder.

Reid landed against him with a gasp, legs straddling Aaron's hips, and Aaron dove in for a kiss.

He missed Reid's mouth and got the man's nose instead. He chuckled, because they were always playful when they were like this, and then he tried again.

"Aaron," Reid called out, this time a bit more insistent and there was more pressure on his shoulders. Aaron rolled his hips up, savoring the erection bumping against his own and the gasp the contact elicited.

This time, his mouth met Reid's dry, firm lips. He licked and gently nibbled.

"Aaron …"

"Please," he murmured.

There was a sigh. He felt Reid's forehead rest against his. "Aaron, you're not even fully awake."

"I'm not supposed to be," Aaron replied. Another long sigh, but Aaron was not deterred. He knew how this dream went. Reid resisted because he was the unit chief but then he allowed himself to take advantage of what was being offered.

"This isn't a dream."

"It's always a dream." He found Reid's lips again and tried to kiss him.

"Do you even know who I am?"

"Of course, sir. Spencer. Sir. _Spen_ -sir." He chuckled and nibbled on the man's lip. "Who else?"

That earned a light laugh. "Well, at least I'm comforted by that fact."

Aaron squeezed the firm buttock in his palm. "Want you."

"You're still half-wake."

"So? Never-Never land."

"I don't want to be a figment of your imagination." A sudden sharp pain to his left earlobe jolted Aaron awake.

Then, the realization of just _what_ was going on hit him.

His boss was straddling his lap.

Aaron had one hand firmly on Reid's ass and another cupping the back of Reid's head.

Reid's face was mere inches from his own.

_Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is real. This is …_ His hands immediately flew off of Reid's body and clutched his couch. "Sir … sir…" he stuttered. " _Sir_."

" _Spen-_ sir, I believe you said," Reid corrected with an amused smile on his face. "Good. You're awake."

"I … I…" Aaron made a gurgling sound, his breathing all over the place as his mind raced. _I just sexually assaulted my boss. Oh God._ _What to say … what to say …_

"It's okay," the chief soothed. "I'm honored that you think of me that way."

"Sir …"

Fingers ghostly along the side of Aaron's face. "If this is what you need, then this is what you need."

"Sir …"

"Sexual release is an accepted relaxation method," he continued, thumb swiping across Aaron's lower lip before gliding down Aaron's throat. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. And as I mentioned earlier, there are very few people who understand what we see, who can fathom what we deal with on a daily basis. I'm not offended. As I said, I'm flattered. But I wanted to make sure you were cognizant of your actions, that you knew it was really me instead of, well, any number of persons."

Instead of the apology he was desperate to offer, Aaron blurted, "Then you've done this before."

"It's been a while, but yes," Reid answered. "I wanted informed consent before we continued. I didn't want you to feel even worse about yourself than you already do." His hands now rested on Aaron's shoulders. "May I kiss you, Aaron?"

Aaron stared. He stared some more. His brain struggled to process Reid's words. His mind latched on to, _Informed consent._ It was the only reason why Reid stopped him. He breathed out, "Okay," as he closed his eyes.

Then, Reid leaned forward, pressed his lips against Aaron's, and delivered a kiss that short-circuited Aaron's brain. Aaron's jaw dropped open and Reid's tongue leisurely explored Aaron's mouth. It took a while for him to catch up, for him to respond to the gentle ministrations. His grip tightened on Reid's ass and Reid moaned, rolling his hips forward.

Aaron wasn't sure how long they kissed and, well, dry-humped. He wanted more, but couldn't find the words, not with how the dream he'd been having since he joined the BAU was playing out live. Reid's fingers played with his tie, loosening the knot and then unbuttoning the top button.

"What do you need?" Reid asked softly, fingertips stroking Aaron's bared throat.

"I … I don't know."

"May I touch you?"

The 'yes' came out as an embarrassing squeak.

"Thank you," Reid murmured and he pressed his hand to Aaron's chest before moving it downwards. The chief's lips were warm and dry. Gentle yet forceful. Firm but not bruising.

Aaron wanted to be humiliated by the sounds that Reid elicited from him, but he was too enraptured by one of his fantasies playing out. And when Reid palmed his erection through the thick material of his trousers, Aaron arched and his left hand latched onto Reid's ass again. "Please. Oh, God, _please_."

"Move to the floor," Reid instructed and somehow, someway, they both slid down to the carpeting without losing contact. Reid's fingers nimbly undid Aaron's belt, button and fly. "Are you sure?"

"Please," Aaron begged as he clumsily pawed at Reid's pants.

"Shhh," the chief soothed and then nuzzled Aaron's neck. "Let me take care of you first."

All Aaron could do was nod as Reid's long fingers slipped past the waistband of Aaron's boxers, teased the pubic hairs, and then lightly stroked Aaron's dick. Aaron whined and thrust forward. "Please."

Reid began kissing him on the lips, exploring his mouth as his thumb circled the head of Aaron's cock, smearing precum over his shaft. Aaron couldn't stop moving or moaning, pushing himself against Reid's hand. Finally, Reid's fingers circled his dick and tightened to an exquisite pressure. Reid's lips were against Aaron's ear, his voice a throaty purr. "Fuck my hand."

Aaron obeyed.

"That's it," Reid coaxed him. "You're close, aren't you?"

"Always with you," Aaron admitted, unable to be embarrassed because all he could think about was _wannacumwannacumwannacum_. When Reid began twisting his hand, Aaron let out another whine and pistoned his hips harder. "Close."

"Then let go," Reid told him and then kissed him hard.

The orgasm hit and Aaron's entire body shook. He knew he keened loudly but _Goditwassogood_. Reid milked his cock yet knew the moment when it got too much. He pulled his hand away and rock back on his haunches.

Aaron took great shuddering gulps of air, his body shaking and his mind completely blank.

"Look at me," Reid commanded softly and Aaron obeyed.

Then, he watched as Reid lifted his cum-covered hand to his lips and then lapped the ejaculate from his skin, savoring it with a small, satisfied smile. Stunned, Aaron just stared. Reid's lips tipped up serenely. "Savory," he confided with a little waggle of his eyebrows. "You're not the only one with fantasies, Aaron."

He watched in awe as Spencer licked the rest of his cum off his hand. Still breathing heavily, Aaron's brain finally kicked back into gear. He reached forward, shaking. His hands slid up Reid's thighs, but Reid gentled grasped his wrists.

"I appreciate the thought," his smile was warm, genuine, and luminous. "But watching you get off like that …" Reid moved their hands until Aaron could feel the wetness radiating from Reid's crotch. "I haven't cum in my pants without stimulation in …" he narrowed his eyes a little before continuing, "Sixteen years, eight months and four days." Reid released him, running the back of his dry hand down the side of Aaron's face. "Thank you."

"Sir …"

" _Spen_ -sir," the chief admonished with a large grin. "I had my hand down you trousers. Your tongue was in my mouth. And I had a tasty snack. I believe we should dispense with the formalities."

"Spencer."

With that, Reid slowly got to his feet, joints popping as he did. The wet stain on his crotch was quite obvious.

"I have … I have sweatpants," Aaron stuttered.

Reid beamed at him. "Those would be great. Thank you."

Somehow, Aaron managed to scramble to his feet, trousers still unzipped and unbuttoned, and belt undone. He dashed to his bedroom and yanked out a pair of track pants from his drawer. When he returned, Reid already stripped out of his dress pants and was standing in the middle of Aaron's apartment wearing tight-fitting boxer briefs, a dress shirt and a sweater vest.

It was one of the sexiest things Aaron had ever seen. He held out the pants and bashfully looked away as Reid accepted them. He listened as Reid put them on, wanting to laugh at the sounds of the chief hopping on one foot but found he couldn't.

_I just had sex with my boss_. Oh God.

"Aaron?"

He jerked his gaze to meet Reid's calm expression. He knew his face conveyed his guilt by the frown that tugged at Reid's lips. Reid strode forward, sliding his hand to cup Aaron's jaw. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yes, sir."

" _Spen_ -sir." And this time, Reid definitely sounded annoyed.

"Spencer," Aaron repeated.

"I'm here for you," he continued. "Friend. Confidante. Lover. Whatever you need."

Surely it was the after-effects of the orgasm that made Aaron blurt, "Why me?"

"Because you're an amazing man. Strong. Talented. Observant. Compassionate. Passionate. I could go on, but I have a feeling it will only embarrass you, which I don't wish to do. You're one of the most courageous persons I know, and I never want you to lose what makes you Aaron Hotchner."

The compliments made his eyes burn. Thankfully, Reid pulled him into a loose embrace, Aaron's forehead on his shoulder. They stayed like that a few minutes, Reid stroking his back with motions of comfort, not rousing.

"It's late," Reid finally said. "As much as I would like to share your bed, I don't think it would be a good idea right now. Maybe next time."

"Next time?" Aaron asked, damning his voice for squeaking on the words like that.

Reid's brow furrowed. "If you would like. There's no pressure."

"You …" God, he couldn't bring himself to utter the words.

"As I said, I'm here for you. Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need." Reid leaned in for one last, lingering kiss. "Get some sleep." He cradled Aaron's cheek. "If you wish to do something over the next few days … museum, opera, or even just sitting in the park and profiling strangers … call me."

"Yes, sir."

" _Spen_ -sir," the chief corrected with a lopsided smile. "And it's not an order. If this is a one time thing, then so be it. If, however, if it is something you would like to continue, I am interested."

"You're interested."

"You're a very attractive man, Aaron. You're intelligent and you listen. What's not to like?" Reid stepped back, dropping his hands to his sides. He looked utterly ridiculous with ill-fitting heather gray sweatpants that clashed with his formal dress shirt and vest. He picked up his folded trousers from the sofa. He leaned forward, brushing a brief kiss against Aaron's lips. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he automatically replied.

"I'll see myself out." With that, Reid turned away and left Aaron's apartment, with Aaron standing dazed in his living room.

#########


	9. Aftermath of Strange Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three days ago, Hotch had sex with his boss. Not only does he have to deal with that when they all return to the office, but Hotch has to the Team in the aftermath of the events in Tennessee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately follows the events in Chapter 8.

For the next three days, Aaron vacillated between horror ( _Oh God,_ _I sexually assaulted my boss on my couch and he's going to fire me!_ ) to giddiness _(I had sex with my boss on my couch and he wants to do it again!)_ to humiliation _(The only reason your boss had sex with you on your couch was because you're pathetic and he felt sorry for you.)_

He didn't have nightmares about the BAU, just explicit dreams about sliding down Spencer's tight-fitting boxer-briefs and sucking him off while in the middle of his living room. Then there was the dream where he bent Spencer over the back of the couch and fucked him hard until they were both spent. Oh, and the one where a bare-chested Spencer knelt before him and Aaron stroked his cock until he gave his boss a pearl necklace and Spencer came without being touched.

And Aaron's cock _did_ ache because when he woke up from those dreams, he couldn't help but jack off. He masturbated more in the past three days than he could remember in years. The orgasms were all good, leaving him breathless and shaky.

What caught in his mind the most was Spencer's simple statement of: _If this is a one time thing, then so be it. If, however, if it is something you would like to continue, I am interested._ Chivalrous, of course, because over the last ten months of working closely with Spencer Reid, it was a description that immediately came to mind. Spencer wasn't aloof, just careful with his interactions.

So during the waking hours, Aaron did everything he could _not_ to think about the fact that, well, his boss could also very well become a fuck buddy.

Not that Aaron ever had one. And he didn't want Spencer strictly as the 'go to hand' when things went bad. No. He wanted … He stopped himself.

Compartmentalizing was always one of Aaron's greatest strengths. Therefore, that was what he did with Spencer.

Aaron used the three days off to get caught up on the mundane things, like bills, cleaning and groceries. He was even able to get in two rounds of golf at Little Bennett municipal course. The company during his golf outings was less than stellar; Aaron didn't have a regular golfing partner yet and his schedule really didn't allow him much time to be a course regular. So, he was paired up when he went since the course didn't allow single players to have tee times. When asked what he did for a living, he answered with the vague, "I'm an analyst with the FBI," since the last thing he wanted to do on the links was discuss serial killers.

Regardless, golf was a way for him to relax. It was the serenity he found on the links that he took with him to the office on Tuesday morning, his first day back after the Harringtonville case. The bullpen was quiet, the B and C teams out in the field working serial arson and rapist cases, respectively. Hotch allowed himself a single glance towards Gideon's office, noting the door being closed the blinds drawn. He wondered what Reid had told the other teams, if anything. While the BAU had a rumor mill, it wasn't nearly as active as Hotch had expected.

Still, the second-in-command being on a leave of absence or vacation or however Reid termed it to the rest of the unit …

Hotch mentally shook himself. He couldn't dwell on it. He knew better.

"Please tell me Connick didn't make the coffee this morning," Morgan said as he entered the kitchenette where Hotch was pouring his own cup.

"He's in upstate New York on that arson case," Hotch told him as he held up the carafe. "I made this batch, so no bitching."

"I never bitch about your coffee, Hotch," the other agent shot back. "Hell, yours is the reason we have eight a.m. shadows." He fished out a mug from the cabinet and held it out.

Hotch chuckled as he poured. He was about to make a teasing comment about razors when a silver travel mug was suddenly next to Morgan's ceramic one.

Reid's partially empty mug. Reid's pleased tone as he declared, "Could you top me off, please?"

Hotch could feel the embarrassment burn his cheeks as his mind went straight to the gutter. _I'll top you any day of the week. How about in your office in ten minutes?_

All the pep talks Hotch gave himself over the past three days, how he would not allow what happened in his apartment— _I had sex with my boss on my couch!_ —to affect his performance, all went out the window.

"Yes, sir," he managed to get out, gaze focused exclusively on the two coffee cups in front of him. It took enormous amount of willpower to keep his hand steady as he filled Reid's mug, watching as the black liquid swirled with the light beige contents. He knew Morgan was teasing Reid about his habit like Morgan did every morning and Reid threw out some odd statistic as usual, but the roar in his ears drowned out the words.

"Thanks," Reid said warmly.

"You're welcome, sir," he replied as he finished pouring the cup. He stepped back, turned and slid the carafe back on to the burner.

"Roundtable at eleven," Reid told them and by the slight squeak of his Chuck Taylors, Hotch knew the man had retreated to his office.

Morgan stayed.

_Shit._

Because Morgan was nosey as hell and wouldn't let up until he got the answers he wanted.

When Hotch turned back around, Morgan took a step closer. "You know he won't judge you, right?" Morgan asked, voice pitched low. "What happened in Tennessee … he's not going to hold that against you. Hell, none of us are. You've got to believe that. We got your back."

It was a bit insulting to be told something that obvious, but it was an out Hotch was willing to accept. He still couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. If he did, he knew that Morgan would figure out the source of his embarrassment wasn't necessarily what happened in Tennessee. "I know."

"Good." There was a long pause before Morgan clasped his shoulder. "Look, our AL is coming up in two months. Don't know if you've made any plans or anything, but a friend of mine is offering sick rates at this Jamaican resort he manages. Four-stars. Lots of single ladies in teeny bikinis. Elle's already in."

"Whoa-whoa-whoa," Elle interrupted as she breezed into the kitchenette. Hotch looked up at the sound of her voice and wondered just what the hell she had witnessed. Hopefully, not his reaction to Reid's 'top' comment. She wasn't as nosey as Morgan, but she was far more likely to draw the right conclusions. "You promised me men, Morgan."

"There are men. Men and women. Lots of lovely single people," he clarified as he stepped away from Hotch. "Private beaches and late night dancing and those crazy drinks with umbrellas in them."

"You're getting a kickback on this, aren't you?" Elle asked suspiciously. She fetcher a cup and both men moved so she could get to the coffeemaker. "The more people you get to go along, the bigger your discount."

"Nothing like that, Miss Elle," Morgan waggled a finger at her. "Just saying we all could use some vacay where the most we worry about is what drink to order next."

While Hotch knew his AL was approaching and knew that Reid made the effort that each team was off together at the same time, he hadn't really thought about _what_ he'd be doing. He thought about spending time with his little brother, who was in his final year at Georgetown. Knowing Sean, he would be scoffed at; even being in the same city, the two rarely crossed paths. Still, Hotch struggled to remember the last time he had an honest-to-God vacation that didn't involve him moving to a new place to live.

He glanced over to Morgan. "Do they have golf?"

Morgan's mouth dropped open. "I'm talking about beaches and bikinis and you're thinking about _golf?_ "

"So he likes to swing something else around besides his dick, Morgan," Elle shot back as she stood next to Hotch. Hotch couldn't help but laugh. Elle could be as foul-mouthed as any hardened LEO, but she rarely let it loose in the BAU. She looped her arm through his. "C'mon, Hotch. I've got the website bookmarked."

**###########**

The day's roundtable meeting was simply a review of consults they were working on. Maybe because Gideon had been gone for those months after Boston that JJ, Morgan, Elle and Garcia acted as if Gideon _not_ being there was normal. Aside from the embarrassing encounter in the kitchen that morning, Hotch skillfully avoided any one-on-one conversations with his boss.

He knew it was only a matter of time when Elle and Morgan were going to call him on it, for them to realize it was something more than Gideon's verbal attack in Tennessee that made Hotch flustered around the unit chief.

_Got to get over it,_ he scolded himself.

Reid certainly acted like nothing untoward had happened between them. Then again, Reid's poker face was legendary within the BAU. Reid only allowed people to see what he wanted them to see.

Sighing inwardly, Hotch logged of his laptop and began packing up for the day. It was almost six, and while the BAU really didn't have set office hours, most people called it quits at five-thirty. Elle was already gone and Morgan was probably lurking in Garcia's lair like he usually did before he headed home. Hotch decided to get a run in at the Bureau's facilities before he headed back to his apartment. Exercise always helped him focus.

The men's room wasn't particularly crowded, so Hotch went directly to his personal locker. He spun through the combination for his padlock, 11-6-8. It was the modified release date of his favorite Beatles album, and also a pattern of numbers that it would be difficult to guess. After all, most people chose mundane things like birthdays and anniversaries. The release date of an album? Not so much.

The lock clicked open and he swung open the door. When Hotch looked inside, he was stunned to see a pair of neatly folded gray sweatpants in a dry cleaning bag and sitting on top of his running shoes.

Hotch only owned one pair of heather gray pants.

The pair that he'd given Reid four nights ago.

The night that, _You're not the only one with fantasies, Aaron,_ was scorched in his mind.

Hotch's mouth went dry.

He closed the locker door. He put the padlock back on.

He gathered up his things and went back to the office, knowing that Reid always worked until at least seven on the first day back after stand-downs. The bullpen was deserted when he arrived, but Reid was still there. The chief's door was open as were his blinds.

Aaron wasn't sure what possessed him to march up the ramp and enter Reid's office without knocking or even asking permission. He closed the door, dropped his briefcase by it, crossed his arms over his chest, and demanded, "How the hell did you know my locker combination?"

Reid looked up from the mess of paperwork around him and then blinked slowly. He was wearing his glasses, which he must have put on after everyone left for the day. Hotch would never classify Reid as being vain, but he did know the chief rarely wore his glasses in public. Reid set his pen down and leaned back in his chair.

"It takes an average twelve seconds to crack a standard combination padlock," the chief replied.

Whatever he was expecting Reid to say, it certainly wasn't that. Aaron stared. "Twelve seconds."

"It's a basic recovery method," Reid explained light-heartedly. "Now, I could have used a straight edge razor, aluminum can, a Sharpie marker, and scissor to make a shim, but usually the twelve-second method works especially with older locks. Actually … I can do it in about eight." He grinned a little. "I can do the math in my head." Then, his expression turned serious as did his tone. "I apologize for violating your personal space, but I wasn't sure how else to, well, return your clothing without drawing too much attention." He shrugged. "Handing them to you in the bullpen was out of the question."

For a moment, Aaron glowered. It was a perfectly reasonable explanation although, "The execution of your plan is unnerving."

"I do apologize," he said earnestly. "It wasn't meant to embarrass or unsettle you."

Aaron was forced to look away, because he could see the honesty as well as the regret in Reid's face, even at this distance. "I … know." He frowned. "It's just that …" He wasn't sure he could explain, so he fell silent.

"Given what we do, having an article of clothing show up unexpectedly in what you perceived as a secure location isn't the best way to end the day. Or start it. Or anytime, really, for that matter."

There was something in Reid's tone that washed away Aaron's anger over the padlock and uncertainty about their professional relationship. Reid was always so upfront about possible triggers in their line of work, perhaps so that they would be able to recognize them for what they were: a byproduct of the constant exposure to the worst of the worst.

It was that which made him tease, "Actually, I was going to say you were showing off."

Reid snorted with amusement. "So, you're not going to arrest me for breaking and entering?"

"I'll let you off with a warning this time."

"Thank you kindly, Agent."

"Don't let it happen again," Aaron warned, using his best authoritative voice.

"I believe I have learned my lesson."

"Good."

There were a few beats of silence before both of them snickered a little. "Have a good evening, Aaron."

"You're not heading out?"

"Budget reports," Reid answered as he gestured to the file on his desk. "Justifying the use of a private jet usually requires an avalanche of numbers." He picked up his pen. "Some days, I think I should get a degree in accounting and pass the CPA exam so I don't have keep answering, 'Are you sure these numbers are right?' from the panel."

"Do you need help?" he asked, surprising himself with making the offer. _From angry to helpful in two seconds_ , he thought ruefully. _You have it so bad for him._ He briefly wondered if budgeting was something that Gideon usually did. Aaron mentally shook himself; Gideon wouldn't stoop to do something as mundane.

The chief's smile grew warm and appreciative although he declined with, "Thank you, but no. I'm almost done anyway."

"Good night, sir."

They stared at each other.

Aaron could almost hear the correction _Spen-sir_. He swallowed hard and tried to sound normal as he said, "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, then."

**###########**


	10. Return of the Deposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hotch gets blindsided by Gideon's return. An apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology. Yet as unnerving as that confrontation was, nothing prepared Hotch for dealing with an enraged Spencer Reid.

After the "sweatpants confrontation" (as Hotch's mind decided to label it), there were no more light-hearted, teasing conversations between him and Reid. For the past two weeks, the chief had been putting in stupidly late hours and horrifyingly early mornings.

Hotch knew that budgets were finished during their first week back from Tennessee. Performance evaluations were completed seven weeks before that. While there were always cases to be worked, there wasn't the crushing press of immediacy and travel that they sometimes faced. So it was two full weeks of nothing but paperwork.

Reid was distant and distracted; the few times Hotch tried to engage him in casual conversation, Reid obliged but was curt and cool. Gone was the banter and slightly teasing tones that Hotch came to associate with their exchanges. It was almost as if the night at Hotch's apartment— _I had sex with my boss on my couch!_ —and the subsequent sweatpants conversation never happened.

Still, Reid always paused when the conversation drew to an awkward close, met Hotch's gaze, and offer a small apologetic smile. Sometimes, he would settle his hand on Hotch's shoulder, just like he had done that night in Hotch's apartment, and give a gentle squeeze.

"Paperwork," he would day by way of explanation and probably hoping to take the sting out of the rejection. Maybe he was trying to say, _I have no regrets about what happened at your apartment,_ or _What's happening has nothing to do with you,_ as well.

Hotch would dutifully repeat, "Paperwork," and forced himself not to be hurt about it.

The additional paperwork was more than likely due to Gideon's absence. He felt guilty for enjoying the time because for the first time in his tenure at the BAU, Hotch wasn't being constantly criticized by the senior agent, but it also had their Team one person down.

Someone had to take up the slack from Gideon being out, and Reid was the type of man who would take on the task so it wouldn't burden the others.

But Hotch was curious as to why there was suddenly so much more "paperwork" for Reid to do. Gideon didn't strike him as the type to actually have any; such mundane things were beneath him. All Gideon seemed interested in was the hunt and being able to say, "I saved this person." Hotch had seen the photos in Gideon's office. He knew that Gideon explained it so casually with, "You could call them my family."

The dozens of picture frames on the credenza facing Gideon's desk made Hotch think "trophy." Trophies could be good things and they could be bad things, but putting those photos in the context of how the BAU interpreted trophies? Not a good thing.

Hotch wanted to get the Team's opinion on Reid's suddenly increased workload, but he was leery to do so. So far, Elle, Morgan and JJ had not brought up what happened in Harringtonville directly. The only reference to the brutal confrontation were packages of peanut butter crackers, peanut butter Combos, and Slim Jims that just showed up on day in his top desk drawer and tucked in his briefcase. And when Hotch tried to thank them individually in private, all three promptly claimed that they had no idea what he was talking about.

_We move on_ , was one of Reid's credos.

Clearly, Elle, Morgan and JJ had. Garcia didn't act any differently, so it was quite possible she had no idea what happened in Tennessee either. It wasn't as if Hotch was going to stop by her lair and ask; he wasn't that foolish because if she didn't know, she would fuss over him even more than she usually did.

Asking outside the immediate team?

Not a chance.

The only solution was to ask Reid himself. While he was tempted just to show up at Reid's home like Reid had done for him, the man's office hours made it nearly impossible to guess _when_ he would actually be there. So Hotch opted for an early morning—seven fifteen since most of the BAU arrived around quarter after eight—and made sure that the beat up Ziploc bag that he carried sugar and sweetener packets was in his jacket pocket.

Carrying in a gallon of brewed tea could trigger a rash of rumors about Hotch trying to get in good with the chief. Coffee, on the other hand, wouldn't be seen as too far off; Reid was notorious for taking an entire carafe into his office and forgetting he had it at the end of the day. It was why the BAU had eight pots for their coffee maker because three of them usually ended up in Reid's office. The notes that housekeeping left taped to Reid's door were sometimes the highlight of the morning.

Confident with his plan—he'd make a fresh pot and bring that along with other necessary items from the kitchen to Reid's office—Hotch breezed through the glass doors of the BAU at seven. He would have enough time to get settled at his desk while the coffee brewed and then hopefully have a conversation with Reid.

Yet, Reid's office was dark. The blinds were open and the door was closed. If the chief was sleeping in there—which most of the BAU had money riding on—the blinds would be closed. Reid was very careful about his BAU image. Here, he was chief. He didn't get caught in potentially embarrassing situations like drooling in his sleep on his office couch.

Hotch heard cabinets closing in the kitchenette and then smiled a little. Maybe this was a "late morning" for their chief. He quickly made his way over, hoping that his expression didn't convey too much eagerness as he walked in …

And found himself staring at Jason Gideon.

_Shit_.

Hotch felt his face momentarily freeze; his brain did the same thing. It didn't stop him from recognizing the flash in Gideon's eyes— _He's profiling you_ —or jerking to a stop.

Gideon. Here. No prior warning. Not even a hint that the senior agent was on the comeback trail.

Not one word from Reid.

Not one message from Spencer.

_Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need._

Not one goddamn hint.

"Hotch," Gideon said pleasantly. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was there all the same. It was the expression Gideon used when talking to victims.

_I'm not a victim you can talk down to_ , Hotch thought viciously, but his experience from years of confrontations like this kicked in. He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and extended his right. Manners. Pleasantries. Oh, he knew the drill. "Sir."

The handshake was crisp, efficient. There was no attempt from Gideon to crush his hand or establish dominance in his grip. It was cordial. Gideon continued to look at him as if he were studying some piece of evidence. His tone was on the edge of curious. "You're in early this morning."

"So are you," Hotch countered, keeping his tone light. Polite. Yet, his heart hammered in his chest and his mind struggled to come up with a strategy. He needed one _fast_.

Gideon's smile sharpening a little as he shrugged. "My first day back."

_Son of a bitch wants to play chess_ , Hotch realized. _Fuck_.

Because in almost a year of dealing with the famed Jason Gideon, Hotch knew that the man had planned this confrontation in some form. Gideon had a game plan. This setting? The perfect environment. Early morning. No witnesses for at least another twenty minutes. Bullpen video cameras showing two men having a conversation in the kitchen, but without audio, all an observer had to go on was body language.

And both Gideon and Hotch excelled at neutral stances and bland expressions.

Suddenly, Hotch recalled Reid's words that night in his apartment. The praise he received in how he handled Gideon. Hotch had not retaliated. He couldn't. But maybe those moments of inaction caused by the shock of being profiled so ruthlessly and publicly were the key to dealing with Gideon.

Hotch could launch into a cruel profile of his own. As Reid had said, Gideon was not that hard to decipher, and Hazleton was dead because of Gideon's mistake. Hotch was confident in his abilities to argue the case. Details and phrasings began lining up in his mind with the rapid-fire precision that was essential to Hotch's courtroom success.

_We move on_ , echoed in his mind. Hotch recalled the debate he had with Reid six months ago about Cadmean and Phyrric victories. Both meant the same: victory at a devastating cost.

Would winning this argument with Gideon mean the end of Hotch's career at the BAU?

Team stability.

That was what Reid strove for.

And Gideon here and now meant that the senior agent had cleared all the evaluations. Reid would have had to have authorized Gideon's reinstatement. So, it became the newly re-blessed elder statesman versus the power hungry Hot Shot.

Hotch was aware of the rumors about his aspirations within the BAU.

Hotch wasn't a coward. He didn't back down from a challenge. But … He wasn't stupid. He was strategic. He heard the coffeemaker sputter like it always did when it finished brewing. Hotch modulated his tone into his most pleasant, 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' voice in his arsenal. "Coffee?"

Gideon's eyebrows shot up in momentary surprise but his expression went quickly back to neutral. The senior agent then held up a bottle of water and made an apologetic noise. "Doctor says I should cut back."

Hotch nodded with a noncommittal "hmpf" but refused to say any more.

Another few tense seconds went by as he watched Gideon sort through the options for the conversation. Finally, Gideon let out a light laugh, shook his shoulders as if to loosen them, and cocked his head to the side. "We started off badly, didn't we?" When Hotch didn't respond, Gideon offered, "Let's start over then," sounding as reasonable and genuine as he did with any number of victims. He extended his hand. "Clean slate."

Hotch supposed it was as close to an apology as he was ever going to get. _As if Jason Gideon would ever apologize for what he did in Tennessee. He probably still sees it as a victory versus the UnSub_. Still, an apology in the kitchen of the BAU wasn't going to earn forgiveness for being humiliated in front of the rest of the team. Then again, Hotch would be even more unnerved (and pissed as hell) if Gideon did a public apology.

"Clean slate," Hotch repeated and shook Gideon's hand, forcing himself to keep it neutral.

But he wasn't going to forget what happened.

He wasn't going to trust this man that easily.

And he was damn sure that he would never allow Gideon to have his back.

Ever.

######

The parade in and out of Gideon's office was nauseating. It was mostly political; despite what happened in Boston, Gideon was still considered a career-maker although the vibe that Hotch got from his fellow agents was that Gideon simply wasn't well liked. Still, Gideon's name carried weight in other departments and cadets trailed after him like ducklings in order to say they had face time with the legend of the BAU. So as other agents trickled in to the office and saw Gideon's light on and door open, they made their way up to welcome him back.

Garcia, of course, was the most enthusiastic because that was … well… _her_. Hotch couldn't fault her—it wouldn't be fair—and he wasn't about to explain why, perhaps, she shouldn't treat Gideon's return like the profiler was some sort of king.

Garcia's voice carried as she admonished Gideon for not telling her that today was his first back from his 'vacation,' followed by an apology for not having a batch of Hamantaschen waiting for him. Jesus, the woman profiled them via baked goods.

Gideon's equally loud, "Oh, don't fuss over me," made Hotch twitch. He hoped to God that Elle and Morgan, who made no bones about keeping an eye on him this morning, wouldn't call him on it.

Hotch focused on his work, but couldn't stop glancing at the corner of his laptop to check what time it was. As the minutes wore on, his anger began to build, all focused on the single question: _Why didn't Reid tell me Gideon was coming back?_

Hell, a text wasn't that out of the question. Neither was a phone call. Or … or _something_.

Because how the hell else was Hotch supposed to interpret, _Friend. Confidant. Lover. Whatever you need._

The betrayal burned. Hard. Hotch mentally slapped himself.

_You showed Reid your 'vulnerability'… of course he's going to use it against you. He's a chief. You're a Hot Shot. It's the way of things._

By the time Reid finally showed up in the office at quarter after ten, Hotch had worked himself into a decent, righteous snit. Yet when he actually looked at Reid, his anger drained away.

Reid's suit was the one he only wore for VIP Bureau meetings or high-powered court cases. He was also wearing his glasses. Hotch didn't miss Reid's double-take as when the chief saw that Gideon was back. Reid's posture changed from slightly slumped to almost regal. His hands went to his sides. He walked with sure steps through the bullpen and directly to Gideon's office, barely acknowledging the greetings. It was the same stride he used when in court, the one he used to establish his authority.

_He didn't know_ , Hotch's mind whispered. _That's why he didn't tell you. He didn't know Gideon was coming back_.

It made Hotch think of the advice Elle gave him the night of his 'welcome to the BAU' party after they returned from Palm Springs: never blindside the chief. She refused to elaborate, just gave Hotch a look that conveyed that the 'no blindside' rule was nonnegotiable. She then made him drink two shots of tequila.

Hotch observed the chief knocking on Gideon's door, offering that half-little wave that Hotch was still trying to figure out what meant, stepping inside, and promptly shutting the door. When Hotch turned back to his monitor, he noticed that Elle was still staring at Gideon's door. He wondered if she made the same conclusion as he did, that Reid didn't know Gideon was returning.

Someone other than Reid reinstated Gideon but didn't inform the chief.

Morgan's muffled "Damn" confirmed that Morgan realized what was going on as well.

Elle shook her head a little, arched an eyebrow at Hotch, and went back to work.

Gideon broke the 'no blindside' rule.

Then again, Gideon probably believed that rules didn't apply to him.

After ten minutes, Reid strode out of Gideon's office, leaving the door open, and went into his own. Reid closed the door. Hotch watched as the chief circled to his desk and dropped down into his chair.

A minute later, the bullpen filled with chimes and alerts from the agents' phones and computers. "Shit," Morgan said as he grabbed his mouse. "Forgot it was Randomized-Meeting-Time Wednesday."

While Reid did weekly roundtable meetings with all the teams, he met with each agent individually. Usually on Wednesdays and Reid had worked with Garcia to develop a program that enabled him to randomize the meeting times based on an agent's Outlook calendar as well as send out the meeting invitations to all agents simultaneously.

A bit of Vegas in DC.

"Oh, Lady Luck is my girl today! The coveted 'eleven is heaven,'" Morgan announced. "What time did you get?"

"One twenty-six," Elle answered with a groan.

"Ouch," Morgan said sympathetically. "The Grumpy Lunch one. You're gonna have to walk in there armed with a fresh pot of coffee."

Hotch looked at his. "Four oh six." He wondered if Reid tweaked the program so that Hotch would have a later meeting time.

Elle and Morgan said nothing, and Hotch was unsure if that was a good thing or not.

He put it out his mind. He reached for another folder, one that Reid must have placed on his desk last night. Cold case. Chicago, Illinois. Two boys, barely teenagers, all African American, strangled. The first fifteen years ago. The second four years ago. Both John Does. Dumped in a section of Chicago rife with gangbangers. Little forensic evidence. No one looking for them.

The kind of case that no one paid attention to.

Well, _he_ was going to pay attention.

Hotch began reading.

########

Thankfully, the Chicago case kept Hotch occupied for most of the day. He could ignore Gideon holding court and tune out the clicks of Reid's door open and closing as other agents went in for their meeting with the chief. He _couldn't_ ignore that, as the day got later, the agents leaving Reid's office seemed more and more distraught.

"Fucking hell, you need asbestos in there," Anderson grumbled after his. He even rubbed his ass for effect. "Coffee's not gonna cut it," he warned Elle. "Man, I don't know what's gonna."

Which mean Reid was in a foul mood. Their chief, as 'eccentric' as people liked to label him, was also as emotionally even-keeled as any person Hotch had ever met. So when Reid ceased being friendly to his own agents …

Good God. No wonder the 'no blindside' rule was in effect. The people after Anderson lined up outside of Reid's office like they were facing their own execution, that Reid's office was the death chamber. When Elle came out, she fidgeted at her desk for a good three minutes before heading towards the ladies' room.

There was only one thing for Hotch to do: his job. He would provide the most accurate and complete profile he could for these two unknown boys. For the boys that no one was looking for, except for one desperate Chicago detective and an ex-lawyer from Virginia.

When Hotch's time rolled around, he picked up the Chicago file. He was tempted to go into the kitchen and snag a carafe of coffee, paper cups and stirrers so he could carry out his plan from this morning, Operation: Make Spencer Smile.

But it was late in the afternoon, Hotch was sure that there was at least one meeting scheduled after his own, and everyone always paid attention to an agent when he or she entered and exited the office. They weren't supposed to profile each other, but they did.

Reid kept the blinds drawn during those meetings, so no one could observe the conversation. As Hotch went up the ramp to Reid's office, Wendy came out of it looking like she'd just endured the worst of the worst humanity had to offer. Given what the BAU dealt with … yeah… She looked at him, mouthed "Good luck" and went back to her desk.

Hotch took a deep breath before knocking, waiting for Reid's absent "Come in," entering and closing the door. He walked up to Reid's desk and was surprised that the chief didn't even look up from what he was working on.

Reid could easily multi-task; Hotch had seen it enough times when they were out in the field. Yet it was the first time during this type of meeting that the chief did not give his undivided attention.

_So that's what Wendy meant by 'Good luck,'_ Hotch thought. He looked at the chair positioned in front of Reid's desk, but there were no drag marks around the legs. Wendy hadn't sat to give her report. It didn't look like anyone else had either.

"Stop profiling the chair," Reid snarled.

"Yes, sir." Hotch's gaze snapped back to the chief, whose desk was littered with several very thick folders. Reid was writing, his fingers gripping the pen tightly in anger. Or frustration. More than likely, both. Hotch knew it wasn't because of him; he wasn't that self-centered. He also knew he was two seconds from the next order— _Stop profiling_ _ **me**_ —so Hotch began, "I have the case file for the two teenager boys strangled in Chicago. They are still unknowns. First killing was fifteen years ago. The second, four. Detective …"

" _You_ have that file?" Reid demanded, voice cold and fury radiating from him.

Stunned by the man's tone, he stuttered, "It was on my desk this morning, sir."

The chief's grip on his pen turned his fingers white. Although Reid's head was down, Hotch knew the man's jaw was working. He'd only seen Reid thoroughly pissed off once—verbally taking the head off of a principal who dismissed bullying as a reason for a kid turning homicidal—and Hotch had absolutely no desire to see it again.

Hotch counted to five and continued, "Detective Gor…"

"Have you completed the profile?" Reid cut him off, still not looking up, but _goddamn_ he was pressing down hard enough that Aaron swore he could hear the ball of the pen scratching against the paper.

"A preliminary one, sir."

Reid held out the hand that he wasn't writing with, gesturing for the file but not looking up. Aaron handed it over and wondered if Reid could hear the embarrassing gulping sound he made. Because there was Angry Spencer Reid, Pissed off Spencer Reid, Infuriated Spencer Reid and … now this … this Overloaded Nuclear Reactor Ready to Explode Spencer Reid.

The chief slammed the file down on the pile to his right.

_Jesus Christ._ It took every ounce of willpower _not_ to flee from the man's office.

Aaron felt like an impala who stumbled upon a rangy, starving cheetah and his escape routes were completely cut off.

So he had no idea why the hell he was reaching inside his coat pocket and pulling out the battered baggie.

Maybe he had a death wish.

Maybe? Who the hell was he kidding? He _had_ a death wish.

Aaron held out the bag. "I thought maybe for the next round that we could try coffee?"

And _Oh God_ his voice didn't just break on that last word like some teenager.

Reid went still.

Aaron willed himself still and hoped his breathing didn't sound as high pitched as it did to his own ears.

Reid looked up.

Aaron saw the clenched jaw and the furious sneer. He watched as Reid refocused on the tattered baggie. For several moments, there was absolute silence. Then, Reid asked icily, "Four fourteen in the afternoon, and you want to do an experiment with coffee?"

"We don't have an iced tea maker in the kitchen?" and Aaron _definitely_ squeaked out those words. He wondered where the hell his bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona went to.

Oh yeah. He walked into the den occupied by a rangy, starving cheetah that he didn't know existed until just now.

His bad ass, former-prosecutor, SWAT leader persona had a sense of self-preservation.

Reid glared. His nostrils flared. Aaron swallowed hard. Then slowly, the anger seemed to drain away from the chief. His features softened, becoming unreadable. The grip on his pen loosened. His shoulders when from hunched over and tight to open and relaxed. He leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking softly. He tilted his head sideways and folded his hands over his stomach.

Aaron still held out the bag, but at least he wasn't shaking. He wet his lips. He jutted his chin towards the credenza where Reid had a Nespresso machine that he never used. There were coffee cups neatly stacked to the sides. "Five cups?"

Reid closed his eyes briefly. When opened them, he said quietly, "Maybe some other time."

"Of course, sir." Aaron let out a breath and carefully put the baggie back inside his jacket.

Reid leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He looked like he was in his sixties instead of his forties. He breathed loudly, as if taking cleansing breaths. Finally, he met Aaron's gaze with a wholly apologetic one of his own. "If I had known Gideon was returning today, I would have told you."

"I … I know that, sir."

"I apologize for …"

"You said you didn't know," Aaron dared to interrupt. "You can't apologize … you _shouldn't_ apologize for something you have no control over. You told me that."

Reid nodded. "I suppose I did."

"Gideon and I spoke this morning," Aaron continued, wondering if the other agent mentioned it. "Clean slate."

"Clean slate," Reid repeated neutrally, but there was a protective glint in his eyes that translated as, _I won't allow what happened to happen again_.

"Yes, sir." And Aaron was never so desperate to hear the correction of 'Spen-sir' as he was now.

It didn't come.

Aaron waited, because he knew he still had at least five minutes before Reid would allow him to go back out into the bullpen.

There was no such thing as 'being let out class early' when it came to a meeting with SAC SSA Unit Chief Spencer Reid.

"I hear you're going down to Jamaica with Morgan and Elle," Reid offered conversationally.

It was a lifeline. Aaron latched on to it and held tight. "Yes. For our AL. I've never been so I thought why not?"

Reid didn't answer.

For whatever reason, Aaron's mind decided to vomit. "Why don't you join us? No beaches. I mean, you can do the beaches if you want but that's, ah, not for me really. I hate just … lying there. And beach volleyball? I always get the drunk sorority girl on my team so all I think about is liability. So … I golf. I mean, I _want_ to golf while I'm down there. Improve my stroke. My stroke is shittastic." And like when one was puking his brains out, Aaron couldn't seem to stop. "I mean, I've set up some tee times but they don't allow singles so I'll be paired up with someone but if you were to go and join me on the golf course, then we could have the same tee times and be a twosome that can hook up with another single for a threesome or maybe another twosome so we'll be a foursome or just stick to being a twosome…"

Aaron paused to take a deep breath and then found himself staring at the stunned expression of his chief.

_Good Christ._

But that shocked expression turned into Reid's full impish grin. "Are you inviting me to an orgy?"

"Orgy?" Aaron repeated, horrified. Not only because of the misunderstanding but because a) Aaron said the word aloud in a personal conversation and b) he said it to his boss. He knew his face was on fire from blushing. He stammered, "No. No! Twosome is a golf term for two players … threesome…"

Reid held his hand up.

Aaron clamped his mouth shut.

Reid said, "I get it." His lips curved into that smile that Aaron supposed he adored. Reid admitted, "I don't play golf."

"You could caddy."

"Caddy?" Reid arched an eyebrow.

"Well … yes… I mean … Not as in carry my golf clubs! No! PGA regs require the golfer to carry his own clubs, and if I'm going to play I might as well follow the pro rules and I always walk the course. That's half the point. I would never … no … never ask you to carry my clubs. Caddies … they also profile the course, how the fairway and greens are cut. Wind direction and speed. Like a survey of the conditions. Then we talk about the shot and what would be the best club and approach to use based on those factors. I mean, behind every Tiger Woods is a Steve Williams who helps him to win. You've got PhDs in mathematics and physics! If you were my caddy …"

"You could show Tiger a thing or two about golfing?"

"No! Good Lord, never on that level! My handicap is terrifying but with your understanding of physics and mathematics … how the putts roll on the greens is all about physics … you could … help make me, ah, better?" Aaron sputtered. He winced and tried his best not to bounce on his feet. God only knows where all _this_ behavior was coming from, because Aaron couldn't remember the last time he just rambled like a fucking idiot.

First the Sugar Shtick. Now, he spewed on about golf. Christ.

Apparently, this was what happened when an impala tried to talk the rangy, starving cheetah out of devouring him.

Reid's expression was one of amusement. He bit his lips and it looked like he was trying not to laugh. He swallowed a few times before saying, "I'm honored that you think my knowledge of physics and calculus could help improve your game." He cleared his throat a little and it was clear he was fighting back a huge smile. "But I will have to take a pass on Jamaica. I'll be in Vegas for my AL."

"Of course," Aaron said quickly. "It was just …"

"You know," Reid interrupted, and now he was grinning, "of all the people who have tried to get me involved in sports, you are the first to approach it from a scientific perspective."

"I'm probably the only person who made a complete ass out of himself for asking."

"Actually, I would say you're trying to charm the pants off me."

" _Sir_?"

Reid held up his hands. "I'll stop now." He then laughed, the good kind that wasn't nervous or forced. He stood and extended his hand. Aaron automatically reached forward and they shook. Reid's turned serious. "I hope the clean slate is successful."

"So do I."

"My door is always open."

"I know." Aaron took a deep breath before saying, "Mine is too."

That earned a wide, warm smile. Reid's thumb caressed the side of Aaron's hand before he let go. There was a knock at the door. Aaron took a step back. "Your next meeting?"

"JJ's my last for the day. Send her in." Reid said as he sat back down. "Have a good evening, Aaron."

"You do the same, sir."

" _Spen_ -sir," came the soft correction.

Aaron knew he blushed as he repeated, "Spencer."

He turned and took a few steps towards the door, schooling his features back to neutral ( _As if that could fool JJ_ ). He breathed a few times, setting his shoulders. When he opened the door to Spencer's office, JJ stood there with a fresh pot of coffee and the tin of cookies that usually lived in Garcia's lair.

JJ eyed him briefly but he opened the door and stepped aside to allow her to enter. He left, closing the door behind him and calmly walking back to his desk. First Elle then Morgan made the silent offers of 'If you want to talk we can step away' but Aaron declined.

He had brought Reid back from the edge.

He would allow JJ to take the credit for Reid's improved mood—coffee and cookies usually did that—but he wasn't about to share.

He savored the victory

He made Reid smile.

Even if he made a complete ass of himself in the process.

He made Reid smile.

**##### End of Book 1 #####**

**Author's Note:**

> What started out as a whim on my part in response to a prompt from a kink meme—could I actually write a viable AU where Reid was the chief and Hotch had a crush on him?—evolved into this. I was very hesitant to publish it; would people buy into a 'verse where Hotch wasn't as "Hotch" and Reid wasn't exactly "Reid"?
> 
> Taking episodes and recasting them in the "Reid's the Chief" light has been challenging and fun. I treasure the questions and critiques that I've received because they made me stop and think. Those comments made me review what I'd written and realize that, well, I needed to make some changes.
> 
> For those wanting Reid's take on the whole Hot Shot/Hotch relationship, that will be tackled in Book 2. He faces the same conflicts as our canon Hotch does; he's the chief, he's concerned about fraternization issues and how it will affect the Team he's built, and he may be just as bad at taking what is offered as Hotch is.


End file.
